


Sincerely, Devotedly, Confusedly

by AprilFooled



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:47:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25490377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilFooled/pseuds/AprilFooled
Summary: Grantaire is in love with Enjolras, supposedly.Enjolras will resolve this problem, hopefully.Updated Summary:Usually when you confront a friend over their supposed feelings for you, the matter is revolved very quickly. Not if your name is Enjolras. An attempt to rid himself of Les Amis de l'ABC's most aggravating member goes wrong in the best of ways, and leads to unexpected encounters with various Old Men, Criminal Organisations, Persistent Policemen and Very Determined Young Women.Based (mostly) off Brick Canon.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

Courfeyrac lounged opprobriously against the walls of Enjolras' lodgings, picking at an imagined piece of dirt under his nail. Enjolras paid him little mind; he was engaged in binding a stack of books to take back to the Library. Having procured some string from the depths of his desk, he began to bind the neat stack he had made on his desk when Courfeyrac, with feigned casualness, said “Have you spoken to Grantaire recently?”

“Grantaire? He asked me if I would come with you all to the theatre the evening before last” Enjolras knotted the string and looked up “I haven't spoken to him directly since”

“Is that so” Coufeyrac fell again into contemplation. Enjolras unfolded his pocket knife with one hand and cut away the excess string.

“I believe he is in love with you.”

Enjolras startled and almost dropped his knife. Folding it back up, he placed the knife back in his desk then picked up his bundle “Don't be absurd.”

Coureyrac straightened “I'm not. I have been making a of study him; I believe it to be true.”

Enjolras shot him a hard stare “Aside from the proposed object of his affections, you think him capable?”

“Yes” said Coufeyrac, simply “he is checked by you, when none of the rest of us can derail him, he listens when you talk.”

“Yes, he listens – to all of us so he can mock or disrupt.”

Coufeyrac sighed “You're not listening to me, Its not about what he says, has Grantaire ever said anything that he has not reliable contradicted with his next breath? His words are not to be trusted. Its how he looks at you when you speak, when he thinks himself unobserved.”

“And? How does he look at me?”

“Worshipfully.”

“Devotion? From him? Perhaps he mistook me for a cask.”

“Repeatedly? I think he is a little mad for you. He always seeks you out, Enjolras, though you never welcome him. Now I think about it he has behaved like this towards you for as long as I've known him. It explains why he attends our meeting so reliably. Heaven knows he has not passion for the things we discuss and he can socialise with any of us in any number of gay places, any of us but you that is.”

A long pause “Why wouldn't he make his affections known, he's hardly a blushing flower.”

“No, but you are a man” Coufeyrac tapped his chin thoughtfully “perhaps he feels the need for discretion. I just feel that if you discuss it with him and lay his hopes to rest, then he'll stop dragging his feet to our meetings. It does no good for anyone, Grantaire making himself miserable over what he cannot have” 

Enjolras made a dismissive gesture with his free hand and fell into thought. It was distasteful to imagine being letched over by Grantaire, even more so to imagine confronting him, consoling him about it. Enjolras tried to concern himself with Grantaire as little as was polite; he had no patience for a sceptic who absorbed both insult and regard with the insufferable indifference of the frequently intoxicated. Enjolras, while pitying the lost cause, was wary of engaging with him. It was tempting to let whatever supposed infatuation Grantaire had run its course but Courfeyrac was looking at him with an air of expectancy and Enjolras realised he was right. The proposed confrontation was unpleasant but necessary; Courfeyrac would be happy that his friend was no longer suffering, Grantaire being denied his hopes could move on to more frivolous pastures and more importantly the backroom of the Musain would be free of their one non-believer. 

Enjolras thought for a long moment then dropped his bundle of books on his desk, beaconing Courfeyrac towards him ”Very well. If you return these books for me I shall seek him out at once. Do you know where I might find Grantaire at this hour?”

Courfeyrac half-nodded half-shrugged, distinctly cosmopolitan “Most days I have known him to breakfast near his quarters, you know where he lives? Quite near the Cafe Musain”

Enjolras nodded.

“It shouldn't take you to long to find him then”

Enjolras shrugged on his coat and gathered his hat then, hesitating, turned again to his friend “It strikes me that-. You have more experience than I in handling these matters.”

“Honesty is all that is required, and kindness. Grantaire's pride may sting a little but thats what wine is for. You will talk with him and I will console him if need be. Without you giving him hope he will heal and soon all will be forgotten” 

“I haven't been giving him hope “ said Enjolras stiffly.

Courfeyrac grinned “I forget sometimes you have never been in love” a friendly arm was slung across his shoulders “everything but stout denial sparks hope in the hearts of the lovelorn”

Enjolras huffed “Are you confident in your assessment of his regard for me?”

“I wouldn't have approached you otherwise”

A pause, Enjolras put his doubts to rest, his decision had already been made, any more hesitation would be an indulgence. “Tell Combeferre that I will come along later, if I don't see you again this morning I'll meet you both after my lectures” He donned his hat and conducted Courfeyrac to the door.

As the made to part ways on the street outside Courfeyrac held Enjolras back “Promise me that you will be careful with our Capital R, I think our melancholy friend is less hardened to distress than he would have the world believe. Don't eviscerate him as you would some grisette, if I find him a broken man tonight I shall have to take up pistols with you.”

Enjolras smiled, giving a passing widow arrhythmia, and made his promise. Then he turned and marched off in the direction of the Musain.

\-----------------------------------------

Grantaire was lounging outside a street corner cafe, half reading, half perusing passer bys. Enjolras was just about to hail him when Grantaire looked up and, brightening, saved him the trouble “Ah! Enjolras! Just as the solitude was beginning to play on my mind! Come join me.” It was an imperious demand but it held no weight; Grantaire was startled into half rising as Enjolras approached to sit across from him. 

“This is unusual for you. Sit. It does me no good to see you looking so industrious in the mornings, I am exhausted by proxy and then I shall be unable to finish my wine which is a shame because that is the sole recommendation of this cafe, aside from its fortuitous location” Enjolras looked at the table upon which was settled a wine bottle and glass alongside a small volume of what Enjolras judged to be poetry. The bottle of wine was still mostly full however, as was the glass, to Enjolras' not inconsiderable relief; this conversation would be difficult enough sober. “However at this time- do you not have your lectures? You are out of your way then, unless you have resolved to quit your education, Ah now I feel I have summoned an unlucky spectre, our friend, Lesgle, if he should appear we must duck our heads and avoid his gaze for last night he bet his coin against the toss of a die and, disdained as he is by Tyche, now only has holes in his pockets, and upon meeting him we will be obliged to pad his stomach against the cold weeks to come. “ Once they were both seated Grantaire's tongue, never fully grounded, took flight. He hummed a little deep in his throat, threw back a some of his wine, then continued “They say Our Lady Fortuna is a fickle wench and I could offer some testimony to corroborate that claim, however she is as steadfast as ever in her dislike of Bossuet. But you have not come here to gossip, I suspect? ” 

Enjolras took the opportunity to cut in “I came to find you” A stillness came over Grantaire; and for the first time that morning he met his eyes. “I have something, no, there is something I think we should discuss.”

Grantaire took another long drink and looked away “Discussion implies an exchange of worthy ideas, ideas are based in philosophy and we both know my philosophy is lacking even form. A stronger man would be a nihilist; I lack the conviction. So I must have offended you in some way, you seek to chastise me. Very well tell me my fault.” he tore his gaze away from the rim of his glass and again met Enjolras' eyes, his mouth taking on the guise of a smile“I will endeavour to correct it.”

“You are not at fault” A statement which felt like a lie “but there is something we must discuss, walk with me?”

“I am at you service.”

Grantiare stood, bowed, crammed his book in his coat, with little care for either, and flung down some coins he had retrieved from that same pocket. This manurer was completed with such swiftness, that Enjolras was left blinking as Grantaire poked his head into the cafe for a moment and shouted something indistinct, then returned to Enjolras' side.

With a trace of guilt Enjolras said “I did not mean to say you must leave right away.”

“Ah? I don't mind. Although- if you want to sit for a while?” 

“No. Walk with me now” Enjolras said with the kind of force that was his unconscious habit, and took to his feet. 

Enjolras walked down the street, out of the corner of his eye he could see Grantaire looking up at him, still smiling faintly, as if he was pre-emptively amused by whatever Enjolras would have to say. He slowed his pace and turned towards Grantaire, who in turn looked away and saluted a passing Madmoiselle.

“We have known each other for a long time now. Long enough that I think we can both be honest with each other” Enjolras began “and I would like you to know that whatever happens you will always have my friendship.”

Grantaire bloomed into redness, stared up at Enjolras in shock and for the first time Enjolras saw for himself the truth in Coufeyracs words. For the space of a few heartbeats, Grantaires expression was transformed by wonder and disbelief, then just as quickly he rallied and laughing said “I don't know that I could call you friend, you who has never so much as brought me a drink.”

“You are rich enough to support your own habits” Enjolras tartly. 

“And you are a fine enough man to win friends without riches. How nicely we suit each other!” he paused “We may be friends but you have never brought me into your confidence, having no such confidence in me. Tell me Enjolras, has some- some terrible cataclysm occurred that you should seek me out.” Grantaire leaned towards him and lowered his voice “Are you well?”

“I only want you to know that your confidences are safe with me.”

“Please! Give me honesty. Are you dying?” 

Provoked, Enjolras drew breath to snap a retort then remembered his purpose. His was a mission of mercy, of compassion. Additionally a startling awareness had formed in his mind; he perceived that if Grantaire, ridiculous as it might seem, truly had some attachment to him then he had a certain power over Grantaire and Enjolras felt the responsibility of this power, though unwanted and unasked for, keenly. He took a deep breath “I am not dying, Grantaire.”

“Leaving then?”

“No” Enjolras stopped and corralled Grantaire of into the shadow of a dress shop “Grantaire, you asked me for honesty and I will grant you it but you must be honest with me in turn.”

“Of course.”

“I know that you love me as more than a friend.”

Grantaire scoffed then laughed, then scoffed again. Enjolras was not shaken by this; the flush had returned to Grantaires cheeks; he was avoiding his gaze, Enjolras took his embarrassment as a sign that his words rung true. 

“I cannot stand in judgement of your feelings, nor would I wish to, but you must know that they are unrequited. You are my friend and I value that, but nothing more.”

“I'm not in love with you” Grantaire said “Good God- is this really why you sought me out? Do you think so little of me.”

“It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Your right- it is nothing! Truth be told I have always thought you a cold man, Enjolras, but now I see that you're a mad one too!”

“Very well. I've said my piece. Good day” Enjolras turned to go but Grantire held out his arm.

“No” he said “You do me a disservice. At least tell me what signs of love you have deluded yourself into seeing.”

“Alright.” Enjolras said and approached him, Grantaire stepped back, his back hitting the glass of the shopfront “You heed my words and approach me with impunity, no word from me is harsh enough to draw lasting resentment, you attend our meetings consistently despite professing no interest in our cause, you look at me-”

“I look!” Grantaire shouted, Enjolras shushed him “I look! Would it please you if I were blind, Sir, that I might not offend you with my gaze. I see dogs pissing on the street often enough but you don't see me composing odes to canines. Rhapsodising about their drooling tongues and foul breath.”

“You don't look at dogs the same way you look at me.”

“With love?”

“Yes” Enjolras looked down at Grantaire who turned mute and uneasy “I don't blame you for you feelings and I hope we can remain friends” in truth this was more calculated than sincere, less that Enjolras had no care for Grantaires feelings and more that he doubted Grantaire ability to feel any strong emotions for more than a minute at a time. He would not need much comforting “Courfeyrac said he would accompany you out tonight if you would like some sympathetic company.”

Grantaire paled “You have discussed this with our friends

Enjolras nodded “It was Coureyfac who brought your feelings to my attention.”

“My Feelings-! I have already told you the true sum of my feelings, God, there I was about to enjoy my lacklustre breakfast while all my friends were gossiping about me behind my back, Discussing the problem of R. Already in their minds I am no fellow lover of flesh but a strange creature whose lust only rises for stone. Well you might be fairer than Venus and have both your arms to boot but you lack all of her other charms. Even if I was so inclined towards our sex” He flicked his gaze dismissively up Enjolras' body “I would find a man who could grow a beard.”

The conversation was a lost cause from the start; Enjolras resolved to leave directly but before he could Grantaire, adding insult to injury, reached up and batted his hat off his head. By the time Enjolras had retrieved it from the dusty street, Grantaire had vanished.


	2. Chapter 2

“What happened to your hat?” Combeferre blinked slowly at the dented, dusty article that sat atop Enjolras' head. The hat hadn't been new by any stretch of the imagination but Enjolras took good care of his belongings, so the battered hat pared with starched cravette and brushed coat succeeded in making him a little ridiculous. Enjolras was acutely aware of this. Unable to procure an explanation that would not sound immediately absurd, Enjolras fell into seething silence. 

They were sat together on a bench in the Luxemboug Gardens, Enjolras having just sat through a stretch of lectures designed to inform him on the finer points of Property law without taking in a single word. Courfeyrac, who had guessed on sight the outline of what had occurred, explained the situation to Combeferre. First his initial suspicions about Grantaires feelings and the resolution Enjolras had taken to tackle them. “-And so Enjolras went off to talk it out with Grantaire; I cannot help think that it went poorly.”

“Hence the hat” said Comberre helpfully.

Coureyrac nodded gravely “Hence the hat.”

They both looked at Enjolras who after a long silence, exhaled sharply then attempted a smile. This smile reassured them both and Enjolras, restored almost fully, recounted his tale. It would not do any good, thought he, to regret his actions. Grantaires head would cool and, even if he did not properly consider Enjolras' words, no permanent damage would be done. His story was sanitised, containing only the essentials in the broadest strokes. 

“So I should seek him out and perform my own mission of mercy then?” Courfeyrac dimpled.

“I'm not sure he would react well. He was... not reasonable, more so than usual.”

“Let's gauge his mood tonight” said Combeferre, thoughtfully “Perhaps you were both mistaken, if Grantaire was being honest and he really doesn't love you then it entirely possible he already considers it a very fine joke.”

Enjolras stood up “You didn't see his face; he was stricken, desperate to deny it. I was doubtful before but I think he must love me” he sighed “still, love or not, it was foolish of me to think I could have a sensible conversation with him.”

“You're intentions were good.” said Combeferre.

“No” said Enjolras grimly “they were not. I told myself I was setting out to do a good deed but underneath I was happy to have found a way to remove Grantaire from our company. I could never force him to leave us but if he were to part ways of his own accord! That would be ideal and I would be completely free of guilt. I was arrogant.”

“Don't be ridiculous” said Courfeyrac “I will remind you that it was my scheme you were putting into effect. And as much as we might love him, I don't think there is a man amongst us that hasn't wanted to gag R at one time or another.”

Comebeferre nodded emphatically and added “And if Grantaire loves you(strange that I can utter such a phrase with a straight face) then you are a better man than most for trying to put his feelings to rest.”

Suddenly Coufeyrac, stiffened as if struck by an very unpleasant thought.

“Courfeyrac? What is it?”

Coufeyfac began to laugh “I just thought – I was planning to help R drown his sorrows, but knowing him” he broke of with a slightly hysterical sound. “Forget drunk, by tonight he''ll be three sheets to the wind, under the table, completely smashed.”

While Coufeyrac continued to plumb the depths of alcohol related metaphor, Enjolras meditated on what was to come. Grantaire could be rowdy, yes, but directionless like a intoxicated fly, buzzing from place to place with no malicious intent, heedless of the irritation he caused. Enjolras could only imagine Grantaire with a grudge. He sat back down. “Coufeyrac. I am never taking your advice again.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Combeferre.

“I'll let him rant at me if it comes to that” Enjolras smiled ruefully “Unless Coufeyrac is willing to take responsibility for his plans?”

“I'll defend you if it comes to that, so will Combeferre, won't you?”

“Of course. A united front.”

“No. I'll deal with him myself” Enjolras hesitated “No matter how provoking he might become, I don't want you to be tempted to bring up the cause of the argument, unless he does so first. He seemed most stricken by the thought of his affections becoming public.”

Combeferre placed a hand gently on his shoulder “We would never. Don't worry Enjolras, we'll sort this out somehow.”

\-------------------------------------

But there worries were unfounded, or more accurately misguided, for Graintaire did not join them at the Musain that night. Everyone remarked upon this strange occurrence; Grantaire was a fixture like no other in the backroom. Additionally, none of them had seen him for the whole day, Joly was especially perturbed as Grantaire had failed to materialise for cards after lunch but the mood was of lively curiosity, a women they speculated. 

“An enormously fat woman” specified Bahorel “He started mid-morning and has only made it half-way round her.”

“He might be hospitalized after making advances towards a girl with seven brothers” said Feuilly, absently flipping a coin.

“No! ” Prouvaire exclaimed “A lost love. Think of it Grantaire receives a letter, opens it. A pall falls over his flesh, his heart is broken, he calls for a carriage knowing that he must reach her before she is buried. Or married. Whichever is more tragic. In either case there is no time for him to tell anyone of his departure.”

Each of the three fell to defending their hypothesis, Prouvaire emerging from the fray victorious as others were unable to stand against the full force of his Romantic verve. Quickly, however, the allure of speculation faded and the Mystery of R was brushed aside. They all had other matters to discuss. Enjolras kept his silence and made it clear with a look that Courfeyrac and Combeferre were to do the same, but the secret thrummed uneasily under his skin. 

The next night Grantaire was missing again. And curiosity shifted to concern. Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel set out to Grantaires lodgings and, finding them empty, interrogated his landlady. This interrogation was fronted by Joly, as he appeared the most respectable among them, and she informed him that Grantaire had returned there once in the last two days, for a change of clothes. 

Now added to concern was bafflement. The atmosphere of the Musain became strained, Grantaire loud as he was in his presence, left a silence that rang equally clear. Their mutual concern was implicit; no one wanted to give voice to their worries when it was entirely possible that R might shamble back into their lives apologetic but not truly regretful. Enjolras felt the tension and was angry at himself; Grantaire he had no expectations of, so it was pointless to judge him but he looked at his own actions and found himself guilty. 

He began to look for Grantaire as he walked the streets; peering in shop windows and examining passer bys. More publicly Bahoral also kept a weather eye out for Grantaire and after putting it about that he was missing, a little news trickled in; that he had been seen at Madam D---'s by person X or that person Y had met him along the Champs-Élysées. It seemed that Grantaire for reasons only known to himself was avoiding them.

By the fifth day, Enjolras broke his silence on the matter, keenly aware that keeping it any longer would only arose the suspicions of his friends.

“I did not want do make it commonly known since it was a private matter but I had an argument with Grantaire on the morning of his disappearance” This was said with an outward veneer of composure. 

“So, he decides to start avoiding all of us?” Bosssuet had jumped to his feet and shouted over the babble of contention that Enjolras' words set off“ What did you argue about?”

Enjolras stared at him flatly “A private matter.”

Feuilly, made a placating gesture, and took the helm “He's just working up the nerve to apologise then, nothing to be concerned about. He'll come back when he's ready and not before.”

Enjolras smiled gratefully at Feuilly but felt compelled to say “Grantaire, wasn't entirely at fault in this case. Our disagreement was... mutual.” 

“Then you apologise to him!” said Bossuet in exasperation. 

Joly tugged Bossuet back down to his seat, saying “Its not like Grantaire to vanish over some petty argument. Whatever it was Enjolras, I don't think this is your fault. Even if he argued with you, he wouldn't avoid me, nor Bousset.”

“Hah! What's so special about the two of you?” cried Bahorel.

“We are his dearest friends” said Joly indignantly. He wouldn't just start avoiding us for no reason. Something might have happened to him.”

Enjolras felt his heart clench at the worry in his voice.

Coufeyrac shook his head “Hes been seen about town, Grantaire is as hale as ever.”

“That doesn't mean he is well, necessarily” Joly said “avoiding his usual haunts, abandoning his friends? That's not Grantaire, something is wrong.”

Enjolras stood “You're right. The sooner we find him the better. Do we have any paper?” A half dozen sheet of foolscap and a two crumpled pamphlets, courtesy of Bahorel, were scrounged up and Enjolras produced a pencil, which he handed to Combeferre, who looked at him blankly.

“What do you expect me to do with this?”

“You draw studies of things, yes? Insects. Plants” Combeferre nodded “Do you think you could draw a portrait?”

“If you only want a fair approximation, I'll try. It could never be said that R doesn't have recognisable features” Combeferre bent his head to the paper and began to draw, Feuilly and Coufeyrac hung over his shoulders, murmuring advice. Jehan snagged one of the pamphlets and started drawing on its reverse side with a piece of charcoal; Enjolras stopped Bossuet from attempting the same. 

“Now, Who has time to spare tomorrow?” Joly, Bossuet, Prouvaire and Coufeyrac made themselves known, Prouvaire with a slightly distracted air, his fingertips already charcoal stained; he was focused upon his portrait. “Tomorrow we will each take a quarter of Paris that Grantaire has been spotted in in the last few days, and search for him. Each of you take a drawing so we can employ some help in finding him, there will always be Gamins in Paris and all of them are quicker on their feet then ourselves but don't overextend you pockets unless they bring results.” 

Combeferre looked up possibly disgruntled about his suddenly tripled workload “I know you feel guilty but isn't this going to a lot of trouble when he might show up tomorrow none the worse for wear?”

“And yet he might not” said Enjolras with grave conviction “besides - we will waste less time searching for him than we already have discussing what might have become of him. It will be the work of a morning if we organise ourselves properly.”

“And if we can produce a reasonable sketch. This thing errs on the side of caricature” said Coufeyrac.

Enjolras peered at Combeferre's work “His is the kind of face you must see to believe” he admitted “but why have you labelled it? That will be of no use to the Gamins”

“Habit” replied Combeferre sheepishly “we can make copies fairly quickly now I have the essentials down.”

Feuilly fished a stub of pencil from his pocket and began sketch out a fair imitation of Combeferres drawing “This isn't what I expected from my evening”

“If you have somewhere else to be...” Enjolras arched a brow.

“No” Feuilly smiled “Besides who doesn't want to try being an Artist.” 

“Jesus, that's ghastly!” Evidently, Jehan had finished his own sketch, Enjolras walked over.

“You cant give that to a child; it would die of shock.”

“I know a few of the little bastards who would love it” Shrugged Bahorel. 

“Show me?” Prouvoire handed him the paper. 

It was less of an accurate depiction than Combeferres drawing but unmistakably Grantaire rendered in charcoal, staring up at the viewer with eyes that were all pupil and completely expressionless. No, Enjolras felt a chill and looked again, not expressionless. Enjolras recognised that look and suddenly, intolerably, he was reminded of Grantaire pale and mute below him, vulnerable despite the words he spat. 

The pity he had felt for Grantaire had been cerebral, previously he could list the reasons he thought Grantaire unfortunate, but now that kernel of pity had left his head and taken deep root in his heart. The pity that sprang from Enjolras' intellect was intertwined with distane, the pity that grew in his heart with sympathy. Added to this noble sentiment was a bitter twist of resentment that he should find himself so concerned with Grantaires problems when the were greater things at stake. 

Prouvaire snatched the paper back examined it afresh “I still like it, his shoulders are the right shape. I'm usually terrible at shoulders. Well I'll keep it if you don't want it, he'll fit in nicely with my bird sketches”

“No” said Enjolras “there's not point making extra work for ourselves. I'll take it” And saying so he took back the drawing, rolled it up carefully and placed it securely in his inner pocket. 

Once they had finished making their plans, an attempt was made to return to their normal atmosphere but with Grantaire missing, Joly worried and Enjolras, though he did not realise it himself, tense and stern-looking they adjourned earlier than was the norm.  
Enjolras began the walk to his back to his apartment, his friends peeling off until he was quite alone, he pulled his coat tighter around himself against the chill of the October air, his well polished boots clacking against the pavement. The streets were by no means deserted so Enjolras did not notice the fine but worn coat containing Marius Pontmercy until it was almost directly in front of him. Pontmercy started, apparently even more preoccupied than Enjolras, and after greeting him, enquired after Courfeyrac. 

“He is not at the Musain but I don't think he had any particular plans, you'll have to hunt him down” Enjolras paused, a thought occurring “Speaking of which, are you busy tomorrow?”

Pontmercy nervously asserted that he was not and Enjolras explained the plan to find Grantaire as it stood.

Pontmercy blinked “Why would you need to find Grantaire? I passed him not five minutes ago.”

“Where? Street name? What direction was he going?” 

With visibly confusion but excellent clarity Pontmercy replied and Enjolras strode off in the direction he had indicated, leaving the concerned flustering of Pontmercy behind him. He was taller than Pontmercy and not so apt to dawdle so it took only a few minutes for him to round a corner and see, in the lamplight, the cut of a familiar coat. Enjolras walked forward, purposeful, eyes fixed on his target. He was half a street away from Grantaire when Grantaire chanced to turn around and spot him. To Enjolras' frustration Grantaire began to walk faster, almost at a run. Enjolras rolled his eyes at this childish display and broke out into a sprint. 

Enjolras was beautiful, some might even say lovely, but that did not detract from the fact that there is a unique terror in being chased down by a man who looked as though his features had been mathematically calculated. Unbeknownst to Enjolras this was the exact terror that a more than intoxicated Grantaire felt when he glanced back a second later. Thus the chase began in earnest. With the speed of the chase and the shadows the night cast Enjolras quickly lost track of where they were and from the way that Grantaire darted minnow like from street to alley to avenue he seemed similarly disoriented. Just as Enjolras, lungs burning, was almost upon him, Grantaire threw himself left into another alley. Enjolras heard a yelp and a crack before skidding round the corner to see Grantaire fallen sideways on the street, behind him looming the shadowed form of a man. The man wore a cap and the rough clothes of a labourer and was reaching down to Grantaire. 

“Excuse me” Enjolras said as he stepped forwards into the shadow of the alleyway “That's my friend” 

As he got closer he saw that the man was older than he had first assumed not tall but with a barrel-like chest and sturdy arms. He would not like it to come to a fight.

Still approaching Enjolras said firmly “You needn't concern yourself with him” 

The old man looked at Enjolras, unyielding with an autocratic brow his mouth set in a hard line, and stepped between him and Grantaires prone shivering form. 

“Can you speak” the man said. Enjolras blinked; contrary to his expectation the man's voice was gentle and his manner kind. Something about him was familiar. 

Grantaire groaned and tried to sit up.

“Careful” urged the man “There's no need to rush.”

“Fuck” the man knelt down and cradled Grantaire as he struggled upright “Wha' happen'd?”

“You ran into me, fell and hit the wall on your way down.”

Grantaire made an inarticulate sound of understanding.

“Let me see” Enjolras said peering down at Grantaire over the man's shoulder.

Making a sound like a disgruntled cat, Grantaire attempted to flail out of the old mans arms, Enjolras moved around the old man to kneel next to Grantaire who turned his face into the old mans broad chest. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes “There's no point trying to get away from me now” he chided “let me look at you” Enjolras could see no obvious wound so reached out an exploratory hand to feel. The old man stopped his hand “Monsieur, I don't think this man wants your help.”

“I told you I am his friend. Your desire to help is admirable but I can take care of him from here” said Enjolras.

“If he owes you money I can settle his debts.”

“What? No!” Enjolras exclaimed, not sure whether to feel angry or mortified. He looked at the old man directly “I wasn't chasing him down, well, that is I wasn't chasing him down maliciously I'm- Monsieur LeBlanc?”

The old man frowned “Your name is LeBlanc?” 

Blushing, Enjolras cursed himself. Upon recognising the face of the old man he had blurted out, without thinking, the soubriquet that Courfeyrac had bestowed upon him. “No. My name is Enjolras, Sir, I apologise. It is just that I recognise you from the Luxemboug Gardens, my friends and I often see you and your daughter walking there. We are students so we often pass by. You are known to us as LeBlanc, on account of your hair.”

LeBlanc froze “You talk about us?”

“Nothing untoward. It is just that you are a familiar face.”

“I see” LeBlanc did not look like he saw, thought Enjolras, in fact he looked even more unsettled than before.

“Feel Sick” gasped Grantaire, finally succeeding at pulling himself out of LeBlanc's arms, only to slump, breathing heavily, against the alley wall.

“Breath through it” soothed LeBlanc.

“Ah! Breathing. Had almost forgotten” Relived that Grantaire had somehow managed to retrieve both his voice and his capacity for sarcasm, Enjolras offered him his hand “Can you stand?”

After a long moment Grantaire placed his own hand clumsily in Enjolras' grip and nodded jerkily. This was unwise. A great tremor wreaked Grantaires body and he vomited, splattering Enjolras' Coat, trousers and boots. Enjolras winced and endured it, the smell of bile and alcohol saturating the air as the mostly liquid contents of Grantaires stomach soaked into his clothes. Grantaire froze, squeezing his eyes shut, making a small high pitched sound of regretful mortification. 

“We should get you somewhere more comfortable” LeBlanc again took Grantaire into his arms and then to the amazement of Enjolras picked him up in so smooth and effortless a manner that Grantaire, his eyes still closed, noticed nothing till he was completely aloft. He had learn't his lesson and did not move his head, which was lolled to one side, giving him a fine view of the old man's cheek.

“You have a wonderful beard.” He said to LeBlanc solemnly “So white. I pity those fellows who have their hair in that salt and pepper fashion. They are caught between worlds. Am I awake? I don't feel awake. Everything is nonsensical.” 

“You are awake. Try to stay that way; keep your eyes open, and let me know if you start to feel drowsy. You shouldn't let yourself fall asleep in your condition, I'm taking you somewhere a little safer.” 

Grantaire clutched at LeBlanc more firmly and attempted to sound valiant “Onward, Noble Father.”

“Where are you taking him” asked Enjolras. 

“I would not normally take such liberties, but this young man clearly is unable to care for himself, and I cannot know how genuine your concern for him is. I will take him to my home” LeBlanc looked at Enjolras firmly “I do not like to stop you from accompanying us. But I would ask that you behave with courtesy.”

Enjolras could not think of any argument that might convince LeBlanc of his good intent. Chasing a man through the darkened streets of Paris is rarely defensible, unless you wish to implicate the other man. However, given that Grantaire was receiving the help he needed, Enjolras thought that explanations could wait until Grantaire had recovered his senses. Satisfied with how events were unfolding, Enjolras nodded shortly and followed after the steady back of the mysterious and kindly Monsieur LeBlanc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chaper Title: Deus ex Pontmercy removes need for community planning.
> 
> Enjolras is a law student beause I have no imagination.  
> There is a chase scene because I find chase scenes funny.  
> This chapter was brought to you by my need to have someone, anyone bounce off Valjeans BUFF TORSO.


	3. Chapter 3

The walk to Monsieur LeBlanc's residence took almost not time at all. Enjolras walked behind him, watching carefully lest the old man slip. No such slip occurred. Grantaire, despite his bravado, has fallen silent at the first step. Enjolras read the streets signs as he passed them, reorienting himself, until LeBlanc stopped at a gate. 

“I need to set you down for a moment. You can brace yourself against the railing.”

Grantaire was deposited gently next to the iron fence which he clung to with both hands, his forehead pressed against the cool iron, while Leblanc unlocked the gate. Enjolras looked through the bars and, though the street was well lit couldn't see a house under the wilderness that grew behind the gates. The gate swung open, and LeBlanc passed the key to Enjolras “Would you secure the gate behind us?”

He reached for Grantaire again, wrapping an arm around his waist. Supported in this manner, Grantaire made tolerably quick progress along the gravel path that lead up to LeBlanc's home. Enjolras locked the gate and followed them, peering curiously in the dim light first at the overgrown garden, then of the house that came slowly into view. The house appeared to great advantage when seen at night; Enjolras noticed its grandeur but not its slight air of disrepair. It was curious, thought Enjolras, that LeBlanc was the master of such a house and yet skulked in alleyways, dressing like a labourer when he evidently had the finances of a bourgeois. Only one window was lit, the soft light illuminated their faces as they drew closer to the front door. 

Grantaires colour had improved, Enjolras noted, and he was carrying a little more of his own weight. Monseuir LeBlanc opened the door and lead them into a dark entrance hall. Moving confidently in the dark, LeBlanc settled Grantaire on a low seat that was positioned flat against the wall and lit a Quinquet lamp that was sat on a sideboard opposite. Grantaire squinted against the sudden glare and clutched at the fabric of the chair so, concerned, Enjolras moved in front of him blocking the light. 

“Father?” a voice drifted out into the hallway followed by a girl, dressed in black with brown plaited hair. She trotted merrily out to meet her father and began to scold him “Why did you go out without telling me? You were gone for so long I would have gone looking for you if Touissant hadn't convinced me otherwise.”

LeBlanc's smile was strained “I'm sorry Cosette, I didn't mean to take so long. This man needed my help; he had an accident, so I brought him home to recover.”

Grantaire, concealed behind Enjolras, leaned into view and gave her a lazy wave “Mademoiselle.”

The girl, Cosette, waved back laughingly imitating his lackadaisical style then turned to Enjolras and, her cheeks tinged red, curtseyed. In return, Enjolras performed a perfunctory bow. 

LeBlanc watched this interaction with the beginnings of quiet horror “Perhaps you should go and ask Touissant if she could prepare something hot for our guests.“

The girl aquiesed easily despite her clear desire to linger and flew from the room at a pace that was scarcely polite. LeBlanc stared at Enjolras, it would have taken an entirely oblivious man not to see the barely concealed hostility in it.

“Sweet child” Grantaire commented into the tense silence that she left. 

For once Enjolras blessed him; LeBlanc nodded and replied “She is, she is a very sweet child” Enjolras did not miss the heavy emphasis on the word child “An Angel, In so many ways I don't deserve her.” 

“Probably not” agreed Grantaire genially “but who in this world ever gets what they deserve? Aristos weep for heirs while paupers despair of filling a sea of hungry mouths. You are blessed with a daughter so I suppose you must endure the torment of being undeserving.”

LeBlanc dimmed the lamp slightly “Is this more acceptable to you eyes Monsieur?”

Enjolras stepped out of the way and Grantaire blinked into the light “Indescribably.”

“Good, I'll make sure that the lights are not too bright in the sitting room. We'll settle you down and see if you improve” LeBlanc left by the same door that his daughter had entered by. Grantaire nervously watched him go then they were left alone in the hall, Enjolras tried to catch his eye but Grantaire suddenly seemed to find the wallpaper inordinately interesting. It didn't matter; Enjolras wanted complete privacy before he tried to mend their relationship.

LeBlanc's sitting room was very warm, something that Enjolras was grateful after being divested of his coat. He was sat next to Grantaire, on a deeply upholstered chair. LeBlanc had left them once briefly to change leaving them with his Daughter and Housekeeper, piping hot coffee and a plate of toast (“We could think of nothing else to prepare on such short notice” confided the girl) and returned dressed like a gentleman. If his daughter noticed something odd about this she didn't show it, instead pulling him down to sit next to her and pouring him a cup of coffee. She added a cube of sugar and a dash of cream, LeBlanc grimaced but she pressed it upon him firmly. 

Seeing him watching them the girl smiled at Enjolras and said “Father enjoys sweet things, really, but if I left him alone he would deny himself, even now I can only get him to enjoy this much because he knows if he starts refusing good food then I will as well.”

Grantaire, seated closest to the fire and warming his hand with his own coffee, black and unsweetened, laughed “Mademoiselle, your Father called you an Angel when you left the room but I think I see a little of a tyrant in you.”

“Well Monsieur- Oh! We have not been introduced have we? I am Euphraise Fauchelevent.”

“Grantaire. And this fellow whom you keep glancing at from beneath your eyelashes is called Enjolras.”

Miss Fauchelevent went pink, her Father white and Enjolras closed his eyes and sighed. Grantaire sipped his coffee, unapologetic, then said “Don't look so worried, he is unnaturally handsome and by admiring him you are displaying excellent natural taste. And he is very well used to this for all the women of Paris flock to him, though” Grantaire continued with a slight sting in his voice “he is not always so beloved as he would like to think.”

Miss Fauchelevent looked dangerously intrigued by that last statement so Enjolras jumped in with “If you don't mind, Mademoiselle, what were you going to say just before?”

“Oh! Only that I am the Mistress of this house so I am allowed to be as tyrannical as I want.”

Enjolras looked at her; she could have not have been more than fifteen.

“I do not care how the Household is run” Said Fauchelevant, perhaps anticipating his question “So it is better for Cosette to have her way.”

“Are you feeling better, Monsieur Grantaire?” asked the girl.

“Much better, especially with your excellent coffee.”

“I'm sure its not all that good.”

“Miss Fauchelevent” Grantaire began gravely “If you could tell me where you procure such excellent beans, the labours I would perform for you could only be matched in legend, I would slay any number of lions, Nemean or otherwise.” He flung one arm out dramatically, then winced and dropped his head into his hands. His coffee, which he had blanced upon one thigh, teetered and Enjolras dove forward to rescue it. He found himself kneeling next to Grantaire one hand braced on his leg, the other clutching the cup.

“Monsieur!” Miss Fauchelevent jumped up and hurried over “Are you alright.”

A silence, Enjolras found himself rubbing a reassuring circle on Grantaire's thigh “I thought I was. It seems I was mistaken.”

“Is this normal Father?”

Fauchelevent frowned “Do you have a headache?”

“Not a bad one.”

“But it gets worse when you move.”

“Yes” Grantaire peeked through his fingers “Am I dying after all?”

“No” Fauchelevent said “At least not imminently. I've seen this before you should be fine with some rest. Try not to exert yourself.”

It was negotiated that Grantaire would only speak if he promised not to become too animated. This promise was extracted with an ease that only Enjolras attributed to distraction; Grantaire had just noticed his hand on his thigh. It was with a little regret that Enjolras retreated to his seat; as conscious as he was about treating Grantaires feelings with respect, he could admit their was a certain gratification in flustering the unflusterable. He drank coffee, ate a slice of toast that was pressed upon him and tuned out the conversation. Said conversation was surprisingly fluid considering the mismatched demographic of their group and consisted of one part of Miss Fauchelevent's guileless enthusiasm, another of Grantaire's possibly ironic cordiality and a sprinkling of Fatherly concern.

As the hour grew a little later Enjolras was startled by the suggestion that they might stay for the night. Fauchelevent had seemed so on edge the entire evening that he had assumed their eviction would be imminent as soon as Grantaire had improved, which he had by all measures being able to take a turn around the room with only a little assistance, but the invitation was extended so naturally it almost seemed inevitable. Grantaire seemed uncomfortable with this, citing numerous nonsense reasons as to why he could not stay, none of which proved persuasive. Even if they had, thought Enjolras, regardless on the morrow he would escort Grantaire back into the arms of their friends.  
Fauchelevent escorted his daughter from the room and returned with his Housekeeper, both blanket laden. Enjolras thanked the Housekeeper absent-mindedly as she handed him a blanket; Grantaire was murmuring something that he couldn't quite hear to Fauchelevent. Fauchelevent's response, however, was crystal clear. “No; We don't keep alcohol in the house. Are you in pain?” 

“Nothing that some sleep won't solve” Grantaire, kneaded his blanket on his lap.

“I'll leave you for the night then” Fauchelevent hesitated “ unless you want me to stay.”

“I could never keep a man from his bed.”

They were left alone, the fire burning down behind its grate, Grantaire began to tug at his cravat. The strip of fabric came lose and he pulled it from his neck “So.”

“So?”

“You chased me across what felt like half of Paris” Grantaire wetted his lips “You must have something to say to me.”

Enjolras looked at him in the dim light; at the sweat beading across his brow and the way he was twisting his cravet around and around in his hands.

“Not tonight, you should rest. We both should rest. For the conversation I want to have... we should both have clear heads.”

“Oh God, any conversation I've partaken in that required a clear head was doomed from the start” Enjolras despaired at the morbid amusement in Grantaire's voice it; there seemed to be nothing he could say to convince him that his intentions were good. He looked back on the whole frustrating bewildering night that he had just experienced and felt a wave of irritation wash over him. Grantaire pulled up his blanket and curled away from him. Enjolras bristled and snatched up his blanket.

“We'll speak tomorrow” He said, curtly, more curtly than had been his intent. “Goodnight.”

"...Goodnight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter is more if a bridge chapter than a plot chapter but it does have Cosette who I love.  
> Valjeans internal struggle between "I don't like this hot dude near my daughter" and "must help injured person"  
> Grantaire has been spiraling down into negative thoughts about the whole situation for five days straight; he is not a happy bunny.  
> the next chapter will involve feelings(probably)


	4. Chapter 4

Enjolras was aware, before anything else filtered through his consciousness, that he had a crick in his neck. His height came with many advantages but sleeping comfortably in chairs was not one of them. Added to this was the growing pressure from his bladder, not an insurmountable problem as Fauchelevent had pointed him to their water closet the night before. 

The room was still dark though if he strained his eyes he could make out the shape of Grantaire curled up and slumbering, Enjolras did not enjoy the thought of blundering about in the darkness of a strange house. A memory stirred, hoping that he was correct Enjolras stood and felt his way to the mantelpiece and was satisfied when his had closed around a tin of matches. 

The packaging was familiar to him and he smiled; they were phosphorous matches. Combeferre, intrigued by the chemical process, had once explained the science behind them, marvelling at its relative simplicity. Enjolras was more enamoured of its practicality. He struck one and quickly lit a candle that sat on the mantelpiece, before discarding the match in the embers of the previous nights fire. 

Grantaire grumbled in his sleep and attempted to bury himself further in his blanket, apologetically Enjolras shielded his light. A glance at his pocket watch gave him the time; it was a little after five. Taking the candle he snuck like a thief through the house, distantly he could hear quiet clattering sounds from the back of the house, probably he surmised the housekeeper. Unconsciously he softened his footsteps as he started to head upstairs. 

If you had asked Enjolras if he held any hatred to women in general he would have been offended, he had a Mother, after all, to whom he owed his existence as did all men. Women deserved, thought he, their measure of respect. However it went unexamined in Enjolras' mind that the measure of respect that he afforded women was a little lighter than that which he afforded to men; Enjolras would avoid conversation with women, he held the deeply buried assumption that they would not have much to talk about. Hence his efforts to conceal his presence for the Fauchelevents housekeeper, better by far to have Grantaire as a buffer in that sort of situation. 

The water closet, cramped though it was had a small mirror affixed to its wall. Enjolras did not preen as a rule and cared little for his appearance but he cared even less for people thinking him vain, an accusation that had plagued him since childhood, so he was grateful for the privacy when he re-tied his cravat and combed his fingers through his hair. He relived himself, washed his hands in a basin of cold water, then took another moment to examine his boots, still vomit stained. He would have to put aside some time to properly clean them. 

Heading back down the stairs Enjolras was startled to see the door to the sitting room open. He reflexively shadowed his candle with his hand, only to see Grantaire moving furtively, still coat-less and hatless with his cravat slung, untied, round his neck, towards the front door. A bolt of righteous fury struck Enjolras. He was wasting so much time on Grantaire, and Grantaire was still sneaking away. Moral cowardice in action, Grantaire would never face up to anything, was always choosing the easy way out. Enjolras extinguished the candle and went down the stairs, setting the candle down on the sideboard in the hall, Grantaire had a hand on the doorknob. 

Rushing forward Enjolras closed his hand over Grantaire's “Leaving so early?”

Grantaire jerked and trembled but Enjolras did not release his hold, Grantaire dropped his head against the door with a thump “I didn't want to inconvenience our hosts.”

Enjolras took a deep breath “You promised me a conversation.” 

He let go of Grantaire and stepped back, trying to school his expression into something more neutral. 

“Very well” when Grantaire turned around he was smiling. “A conversation. After you?”

They stood opposite each other in the sitting room, Enjolras having relit his candle. 

“You need to stop running away, Grantaire, everyone is worried about you.”

“Okay”

Enjolras froze and stared at Grantaire who was standing nonchalantly, one hand in his waistcoat pocket the picture of easy compliance “What.”

“I'll return to to bosom of my bosom friends.”

“You cant be serious.”

“Why not? I was having a little break from politics, that is true, but now I know how dearly all my friends have been missing me it would be uncharitable to stay away.”

“Don't pretend, Grantaire, you disappeared for five days with no warning, no explanation.”

“I think all our friends know exactly why I made myself scarce.”

“You felt humiliated.” Enjolras supposed it made sense that Grantaire had skulked away to nurse his wounded pride. 

Grantaire made a sound that might have been a laugh under better circumstances “Wouldn't that be a fine thing! I live with humiliation. It has become a habit for me to feel its sting. I wonder sometimes if I might suffer from its absence. ” Grantaire swallowed convulsively "I-I have ideals too, you know.” 

“You don't act like it” Still roused Enjolras scarcely wondered at the odd turn Grantaire's speech had taken.

“No. I don't”

“Then what good are they?”

“You don't know that I won't act on them. Someday.”

Enjolras did not dignify that with a response.

“See! That is exactly what I mean, I was content for you to think me incapable for I admit I have not done overmuch to disprove such a perception. But you would rather think me in love with you than think that I might aspire to join you. I read your texts, I can mum your lines; all in all I make a fine republican if you don't look too closely but you-. You act like I don't belong.”

“Well you don't” snapped Enjolras “you contribute only your presence which is of dubious value in of itself.”

“Unfair.” Enjolras raised an eyebrow and Grantaire continued weakly “I contribute to the bill.”

“Then that will have to be enough.” Enjolras turned away from him, he would not be party to a conversation that went nowhere and only served to agitate him.

Behind him he heard Grantaire take several raspy breaths “Enjolras-” he stopped and Enjolras heard him collapse into the cushions of an armchair “You're right I don't belong. If I was a better man I would go and entertain myself with all the other layabouts. I'm not brave enough to believe in your revolution, Enjolras, but- I don't think I can live without it. All of you believe so strongly, not just that it is just, but that is inevitable. I think the thing I love most about you all is that whatever I say or do, I cant cause even the slightest moment of doubt in any of you. It is ridiculous, and I am ridiculous as well because your faith reassures me more than anything. The world is a hopeless but for the fact that you and people like you exist. When I'm with you I feel like I could become the person I want to be.” Grantaire took a shuddering breath, he spoke quietly and bashfully as if he was confiding an embarrassing secret “That person would fight with you, if you let him” 

Enjolras felt as though he was the one who had just had a head injury; his perception of Grantaire, of all Grantaires actions up until that moment bent out of its familiar shape into something new and unexpected. He turned around and saw Grantaire sat hunched over his clasped hands. His eyes were glassy and unfocused and he was blushing, blushing all the way down his neck.

“Is there a punchline to your speech?” He asked softly.

Grantaire twitched his lips up in a miserable attempt at a smile and indicated himself.

“No” said Enjolras “you shouldn't mock yourself for believing in something.”

“It doesn't suit me.”

“No man is born to be or do anything. If the man you want to be only lacks courage then you have eight friends who have more than enough to spare.”

“Oh God, You have hopes for me now” Grantaire wiped at the tears brimming in his eyes and sniffed loudly.

“Yes” stated Enjolras.

“I will let you down.”

Enjolras had always thought Grantaires pessimism was something that he took delight in, that seeing the worst in everything was a game to him, that he liked to appear world weary and blasé. He could not think that now. Grantaire when uplifted by hope would only ever seen how far there was to fall. 

He hesitated, trying to find the right words “Grantaire I cannot deny with times as they are I would like another pair of hands to rely on. The world is changing and we need all the help we can muster to shape that change in the right direction but I would not force that decision on you, nor will I hold you to account for your choices. A true Republic is one that relys on the will of it people. Your belonging with us is not reliant on your ability, you belong with us because you see that our country needs to change. All I need to know is that you want it as much as the rest of us. If you find you courage one day; I will welcome it. Until then- your Friends have missed you.” 

Enjolras finished his address, with the force and conviction he would deliver a speech. Grantaire took a breath to speak then stopped.

“What is it?”

“I was about to be facetious” admitted Grantaire “but then I thought you might have had enough of that already. I am more bearable diluted so I shall wait till we are back with our friends again to-”

Again Grantaire stopped, Enjolras enjoying the novelty of Grantaire voluntarily stopping speaking, waited tolerantly.

“Our Friends” repeated Grantaire hollowly “There is no way they'll believe I'm not in love with you now. Gone five days after being confronted by the presumed object of my affections. It was not a worry when I had resolved to be done with the lot of you but I will never be able to convince them of the truth now.”

“That might be true if they knew about it”

“You did not discuss it with them? But I thought, I mean you mentioned Coufeyrac?”

Enjolras enjoyed Grantaires look of relief “He was the one who came to me with the idea. A theory that he had formulated independently.”

“De Coufeyrac!” Grantaire looked so indignant that Enjolras found himself biting back a smile “No-one else?”

“Combeferre, naturally.”

Grantaire raised a brow “Naturally.”

“He wanted to know what had happened to my hat” defended Enjolras, Grantaire looked confused “It suffered some damage when you knocked it off my head.”

“Ah. I'll buy you a new one” Grantaire paused then grimaced “a coat as well.”

“My coat can be cleaned, my hat-”

“I'll buy you a new hat” repeated Grantaire firmly “I would insist on a new coat as well but I know you would not have it, still I want to apologise somehow. I have been told I can be insufferable, if you would believe it, but you persisted with me even when you didn't have to. I have not repayed you very well for it.”

“Perhaps I ought to conscript you into the service of Patria after all” Enjoras teased, if only to see Grantaire roll his eyes in mock horror. Enjolras took his seat again, Grantaire had recovered his composure and as they regarded each in their newfound accord Enjolras could find only one name for the tender expression that had stolen over Grantaires face. If Grantaire wanted to pretend that he wasn't in love with him, Enjolras could indulge him that happily now. 

“You know” said Grantaire contemplatively, after some time had passed “If I was drunk I would promise you any number of things following such a heart to heart... but sober I see myself more clearly.” He brushed his hair back from his face “But I would still like to promise you something even if its only something small. That is, that I will think about being a little braver, Enjolras, truly. I know thats a weak promise but-

“Its enough” Enjolras looked upon Grantaire, who cared despite himself, and felt affection well up inside of him. 

Let us for a moment take a turn for the metaphorical, and say that every man has a garden planted in his heart, a garden in which many plants grow. For example, the section of Enjolras heart that was given over to his friends was overrun by sprawling perennials; they were beautiful hardy plants with deep roots. At the very edge of this garden on rocky ground, struggled the plant that belonged to Grantaire, its roots were thin and not very deep; it only attracted the eye because it was an eyesore. On that morning, however, if a discerning horticulturist could have peeked into the garden of Enjolras heart, they would been surprised to see new growth in that stunted plant. Hidden amidst its young new leaves a single bud was visible but it would have taken a unusually talented horticulturalist indeed to tell what flower might eventually bloom.

Fauchelevants hospitality extending to giving them both breakfast. His daughter was not present, apparently rising later than her Father, who was waiting to dine with her. Enjolras felt some apprehension; his conversation with Grantaire had at times been indelicate in regards to their politics and he could not be sure that Fauchelevent had not overheard them. It was a situation that could become dangerous, thought he, but he was not overly worried. Fauchelevent displayed no suspicion towards them nor did he ask them any pointed questions, in fact being a quiet man Fachelevent didn't ask them anything. Besides a man who walks around in a disguise must surely be far too preoccupied with his own secrets to worry about anyone else's. 

Then Fauchelevent insisted upon quizzing Grantaire on his health once more so it was past seven when Enjolras looked at his watch and remembered that they both had somewhere to be. They were at the door when, utterly indignant, Miss Fauchelevent raced down the stairway 

“You're leaving without saying goodbye! How rude.”

“Forgive me” Her theatrical entrance struck a cord with Grantaire and he stepped forward kissing both her hands.

Enjolras shook Fauchelevents hand firmly “Thank you, for helping us. The world is a better place for men like you.”

“I only did what was right” said the old man. Enjolras resisted the temptation to segue into discussing what was right for mankind as a whole; he was on a schedule. He extracted Grantaire from his conversation with Miss Fauchelevent, and they left the house on Rue Plumet.

“I can't believe you organised a search party to find me” Said Grantaire as they walked off down the street together “actually, no, I can its perfectly in character for all of you. Are you disappointed all your planning went to waste?”

“A little, I think Jehan will be more disappointed that his artistic efforts went to waste” Enjolras rummaged in his coat and retrieved Prouvaires drawing, only slightly battered. Grantaire examined it and whistled a high note of admiration “Horrific, he has a gift.”

“Combeferre did a few as well, along with Feuilly. Everyone helped in some way.”

“I have amends to make with them as well.”

“Yes” said Enjolras, stern “they did not deserve the worry you put them through”

“I could not have known that-” Enjolras frowned at his protestations “Ah! No, Enjolras don't give me that look, I was selfish; I admit it. I'm sorry.”

They continued the walk back to the Musain where Enjolras had arranged to meet with their friends.

Hesitantly Grantaire asked “What will we tell our friends about all this, I wonder?”

“The truth would be proper considering that they are our closest friends” Enjolras pulled him in close to whisper in his ear “But I don't think an omission here or there will hurt anyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would Grantaire be so open and honset about himself and his feelings and anxities? ONLY IF HE WAS SOBER EMOTIONALLY DISTRESSED AND RECOVERING FROM A HEAD INJURY.  
> phospherous matches were invented but only just like that year in 1830 only just - I'm not sure how quicktly something like that would have been brought to market so perhaps I'm taking a little artistic licence.  
> im still not entirely sure how the bathroom situation in citys worked in this time period; my grandmother had an outhouse but my family has lived out in the country for ever, im not sure citys would have outhouses? I gave it my best shot.  
> bit embarrassed at garden metaphor but I feel like its WHAT HUGO WOULD HAVE WANTED  
> Its 1830's france everyone is at least a little bit sexist because people cant escape being a product of their times.  
> i still kind of hate this chapter but obsessing over it wont make it better.


	5. Chapter 5

The dawn had streaked the sky red by the time the back door of the Musain came into view. The walk seemed to have drained Grantaire who had starting listing to one side. Enjolras slowed his pace and they walked the last stretch at a crawl, one hand on Grantaire's arm. Their friends were gathered on the steps outside the Musain. Coufeyrac and Pontmercy stood at the top of the steps in discussion with Joly, next to a yawning Bossuet. On the bottom step, head tilted back, sat Prouvaire. A crisp autumn breeze rushed down the street, shivering Joly turned away from it, plunging his hands deep into his pockets, and saw them. Enjolras smiled as his friends rushed down the street towards them, Courfeyrac leading the way, Prouvaire making quick time behind him then Joly hustling Bossuet along with Pontmercy bringing up the rear. 

“Enjolras!” exclaimed Courfeyrac “You're safe.”

“I wasn't aware that was in any doubt” Arriving hot on Coureyrac's heels Joly pulled Grantaire away from Enjolras, exclaiming over his dishevelled state.

Coufeyrac shrugged “The last I hear about you was from Pontmercy who told me that you stormed off into the night after Grantaire, Good to see you well R, I went back to your apartment, Joly to Grantaire's. We didn't know what to think.”

“What happened to your head?” Joly, apparently determined to examine every inch of Grantaire, had pulled back his hair to reveal the edge of a dark bruise that reached up past his hairline. 

“I bumped into an old man.” Said Grantaire, cheerfully submitting to the examination.

“That explains everything” remarked Lesgle “The elderly are a known menace.”

Grantaire shook a finger at him sternly “Don't besmirch my saviour. He was a good old fellow but fearsome strong, an angel in the tradition of Michelangelo. I tripped over him; hence my head.”

“He let us stay in his home overnight to recover” added Enjolras.

“This strange old man picked you up off the streets” 

“Literally” interjected Grantaire.

“and gave you a place to stay for the night?” The novelty of the encounter pleased Courfeyrac.

“Yes, though he is not entirely a stranger to us.”

“How so?”

“LeBlanc” said Enjolras.

“Of the Luxumborg Gardens with the ugly daughter?”

Enjolras made a face but nodded “He is called Fauchelevent, very kind, a little odd. No politics that I could discern.” 

“We hadn't seen you for some time before that.” Said Joly quietly, mapping the extent of Grantaire's bruising “What were you doing?”

“Plotting my revenge. I had quarrelled with Enjolras and my dignity did not come out intact. I was determined to avoid him until I could formulate a suitably cutting riposte.”

Bossuet' eyebrows rose “What did you argue about?” 

“Nothing worth retreading” Grantaire batted Joly's hands away and stepped back “It matters not; we've already made amends, haven't we?”

So saying he glanced slyly at up at Enjolras who appreciated this look without understanding why; conspiracy, ideally, is a form of intimacy and an expression of trust.

Enjolras nodded “We both overacted.”

Their friends regarded them with varying degrees of scepticism. 

“If that's an excuse, you should have imagined something more interesting” commented Prouvaire.

“It''s not an excuse, or at least not a good one” Joly tapped Grantaire sharply on his bruise.

“Ow, you villain!” Grantaire exclaimed then, seeing his friend tense and angry, continued entreatingly “No, I'm sorry I'm a scoundrel, forgive me, I will never wonder off alone again, I promise, I will attach myself to your apron strings, you will be sick at the sight of me.” 

“We're already sick at the sight of you, R, but that cant be helped. Now, come here” Grantaire obligingly shuffled closer “I dread to think how long it has been since you last washed and you are a greater trial to me than my tonsils but I love you. So you are forgiven, this time” Joly hugged him, within a moment they were bracketed by Prouvaire and Bossuet, Courfeyrac bounded over and attempted to envelop them all. Pontmercy hovered awkwardly besides them, hands twitching at his sides. Charmed by the exuberance of his friends, Enjolras watched as Grantaire wiggled out from underneath them, flushed and happy from the attention. 

“Where to now then?” Grantaire said, still clasped under Bossuet's arm. 

“I haven eaten yet, since I was dragged out so early” remarked Bossuet, cheerfully “Breakfast?”

“No” Everyone turned to look at Enjolras “Grantaire is going home.”

“Is Grantaire?” said he.

“You need to rest.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes “We'll be having Breakfast, not starting a brawl.”

“It makes no difference; he can sit down in a cafe just as well as he might sit down in his rooms. It will be a nice relaxed affair ” Joly remarked.

By unanimous, if unspoken, agreement Enjolras was the leader of their group. Despite this, most days his chances of exerting any control over his friends was minimal. This he was glad for; the idea of anyone blindly obeying him left a bad taste in Enjolras' mouth, still there were times when he wished his friends would listen to him a little more; now was one of them. He was also painfully aware that he could not reasonably express his concern for Grantaire's health, Grantaire was an adult who could, theoretically, judge his own limits; logically there was no real reason for him to protest. In this matter, however, Enjolras let his feelings take precedence

“Go home. Rest for the day. I don't want to be worried about you.” He firmly, aware of Courfeyrac scrutinising him. Grantaire worked his mouth mulishly for a moment, then, smiling, relented. 

“You have competition, Mother” he teased Joly “You breakfast will be delayed Bossuet, you are accompanying me home.”

Grantaire left with his escort and the rest of them scattered. Enjolras waved them off, feeling a little guilty as he did so, his friends were not so simple as to believe that their argument had been inconsequential and he could only hope they didn't feel slighted by the lie. 

The strange interlude was over, Enjolras could breath freely again and life was back to normal, or as normal as life could ever be when you were plotting to dispose a recently crowned monarch, baring one aspect of his life.That is to say his relationship with Grantaire.

Everything changed and nothing, Grantaire was still frequently inebriated and even more consistently obnoxious, he still fell into maudlin spiels about the inherent wickedness of the humanity. Enjolras would never be able to condone the excesses which Grantaire made his habit, but the disdain he felt for those habits was tempered by the new affection that had sprung up within him; they were friends and Enjolras having glimpsed the good in him, could not unsee it. 

Grantaire could be aggravating, you wouldn't find a single person in Paris willing to dispute that, but good-humoured and Enjoras began to find it hard not to enjoy his company even when his wit slid, as it was wont to do, into vulgarity. For Grantaire's part, he took whatever friendship was offered, and as weeks passed Enjolras found himself offering more and more. Slowly Grantaire wove himself into the fabric of Enjolras' life, morphing from satellite to shadow. It was not possible for Enjolras, who had not payed any close attention to Grantaire previously, to tell if his rhetoric was a shade less bitter; perhaps it was but what could not be denied were the occasions when Grantaire, seemingly at random, would produce fragments of tolerably positive rhetoric untempered by cynicism or irony. Immediately following these outbursts he would escape from the conversation, taking a long drink or spouting off a non-sequitur. These uncharacteristic remarks attracted comment from their friends, their incredulity taking the form of gentle teasing. 

One night they found themselves alone and Enjolras thought to comment “Sometimes you almost appear optimistic nowadays.” 

Sleepy and mellow, Grantaire was reminiscent of a cat that had found a particularly ideal sunbeam “I had began to fear that my particular oratory style had grown stale. A change was in order.”

“I thought that that might be you being brave.”

Grantaire barked out a laugh “God your standards for me are low!”

Enjolras could not apologise without admitting it to be true.

“I'm sorry to disappoint but I haven't yet decided what my bravery should look like.”

Enjolras smiled and clasped his shoulder, in just a few weeks Grantaire's bruise had faded to nothing “I don't think that's something you get to decide”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter rounding up the end of the first arc.  
> I meet again with my old foe: group conversations


	6. Chapter 6

The streets had frozen over, the first frost of the year, one evening late November. Enjolras had just finished attending to his correspondence, the last letter addressed to his Parents. These letters were always a trial to Enjolras as circumstance demanded that he be almost entirely oblique as regards to his daily life lest he implicate both himself and his parents in treason. Hence, communication with his family was always a little strained. Additionally, though his parents sympathised with his politics, they disliked his engagement in them. Having only suspicions about the depths of their Sons involvement in republican causes, his Parents remained silent on the topic and never sought to change his mind; they were resigned to his ambitions even as they feared for him. This tension bled into their correspondence. Enjolras knew that they might not be able to bear the loss of their only child, but who was he to value the grief of his own parents over the grief of fathers whose wages were insufficient to feed their families and mothers who saw their children grow up sickly and illiterate. Some sacrifice was inevitable; with a choice of who to sacrifice, Enjolras would always choose himself.

Blotting his letter, he set it aside with the others to be posted later. Then he rolled his shoulders back, shaking the stiffness from his body, and hunted around his rooms for something to stave of his hunger. Some rummaging produced an apple, slightly wrinkled. Enjolras appreciated that he had the means to eat regularly and well, still, he was guilty of eating irregularly, skipping meals if he was not hungry or if it was inconvenient. He scarfed down the fruit core and all, then wiped his mouth. On the back of his door hung his Coat, its return to its former state facilitated by a trip to the laundry, and a Hat. His Hat, really, although whenever he looked at it he always thought “'Grantaire's Hat” for it was Grantaire's who had brought it for him. It was a little more fashionable than something Enjolras would have chosen himself, true, but well intentioned. It seemed to Enjolras that Grantaire's aimless good intent was slowly beginning to bear fruit. 

Perhaps it's because the universe likes to enjoy a joke at our expense that, just on the night that Enjolras had that thought, Grantaire, for reasons that eluded Enjolras, became extraordinarily drunk. In past weeks Enjolras had noticed that Grantaire, though rarely without a glass, was slower to finish whatever he was drinking. Circumspect only by his own standards. On the night we are speaking of this was not the case. He was drunk when he arrived and only continued to spiral down into oblivion.

He was snappish and dismissive of any attempt to quiet him, over an hour passed as he urged eloquently and ramblingly, to the room at large, for the deposed Charles X's ministers to be pardoned and granted back their offices.

“The people call for their heads; I have a head already and am not rich enough to accommodate the needs of any more, the bill for the milliner alone...”

This circuitous and rambling argument highlighted many advantages to this scheme, once lauding the convenience for the average revolutionary in having ministers who had experience being overthrown, but it would be impossible to record all of said advantages for Grantaire, in terrible form, delved frequently into hideous metaphors designed seemingly only to frustrate and baffle. 

He attempted flirtation with Louison so abominably that she refused to serve him any more until he apologised. Grantaire produced something that was frustratingly akin to an apology but just as well might have been a slight and Louison retreated while he was distracted by the sound of his own voice. In such a fashion Grantaire was promptly cut off from all official channels and nursed his last bottle in relative quiet for the rest of the night, having been shouted down soundly for offending their waitress.

The night wound slowly to a close and even as his other friends departed Enjolras sat at his table with Coufeyrac and Combeferre half listening to their lively debate, half watching Grantaire. Coureyrac and Combeferre debated for the joy of it rather than to alter each others perspectives, perspectives which were rarely dissimilar. Combeferre was disposed to be pointed rather than passionate, while Coufeyrac had hit the table so many times for emphasise that its surface was splattered liberally with wax. This contrast of methodology was engaging to the listener and Enjolras, who loved to hear his friends talk regardless, was particularly entertained. 

When they were ready to leave Enjolras hung back.

“Are you not coming with us?” enquired Combeferre.

Enjolras shook his head and indicated Grantaire still sat emptying the last bitter dregs of his cheap wine “I want to see him home.”

“Are you sure, the night may not be over if I know Grantaire. He'll wear himself out nicely and sleep when he's ready.”

Enjoras frowned “I don't want him worn out, he shouldn't wander about in his state.” They were close enough now, thought Enjolras, that he could exercise good judgement on Grantaire's behalf. 

He waved off his friends and approached him, dousing candles as he went. Standing over Grantaire, the candlelight emphasised the pallor of his cheeps and the perpetual shadows that hung beneath his eyes. Grantaire looked up and tensed, wiped his mouth, brushed back his hair and attempted to straighten his waistcoat.

At a loss for anything else to say, Enjolras put out his hand “Come with me.”

Grantaire allowed himself to be pulled up and out of the Musain. Silence, then Grantaire pulled his hand free from Enjolras' and placed it swaggeringly in his pocket. 

“Are you going to scold me?” smiled the reprobate but Enjolras couldn't find an answer. If he thought Grantaire had taken pleasure in his actions perhaps he would have been tempted to be angry at him but there was a strain in his smile and his stance of exaggerated confidence was tense. Enjolras was reminded of a cat puffing up its tail.

“I want to see you home.”

“It will be a lengthy task; the night is young and I have a great many friends. You may even be required to dance. Would you if I asked?” before Enjolras could draw breath to answer Grantaire continued “You are not my first choice for such a venture. I disparage your uprightness. Bossuet would be a better choice – he is an energetic fellow, well suited to bacchanal pursuits. If I am fair I will include Courfeyrac in my assessment as he is a fine acolyte right down to the priapism, though the maenads approve of him entirely to well for us always to be the best of friends.”

“Another night” Said Enjolras “I'll permit revelry when you can walk in a straight line” Inspiration struck “Consider this your punishment for your conduct tonight.”

Grantaire turned his face away from Enjolras. Enjolras would not have known that he was even breathing but for his breath crystallising in the cold night air. Then shrugged and turned back to face Enjolras, almost unbalancing himself, and consented, as if he didn't really care either way, to be led back to his rooms.

“Did something happen today?” Enjolras asked as they navigated the icy streets.

“The Earth rotated a full 360 degrees; a carthorse slipped its reigns and upset the marketplace on the Rue d'Aligre; I cut myself shaving this morning, do you see?” Grantaire tipped his neck back to indicate a thin cut, unbalancing himself again. Without thinking, Enjolras pulled him to his side. Before Grantaire could comment he continued “You were drinking more than usual. I though something might have upset you.”

“I told you I injured myself this morning. You would not begrudge me something to dull the pain?”

Enjolras looked at the tiny cut “Forgive me” he said dryly. 

The walk to Grantaire's lodgings was almost over, Enjolras cast around for a way to extend their time together. Grantaire's sudden regression to a time he thought past unnerved him and he wanted to recreate the intimacy of the conversation they had had at Fauchelevent's House. If he did not excise that urge now he would spend the night turning the issue over in his mind. 

He stopped them in their tracks and cupped Grantaire's face tilting his head slightly so as to examine the cut on his neck. The injury was scarcely worth mentioning; when he was first learning to shave Enjolras' neck was littered with them.

“If it causes you such pain then I should examine your wound.”

Grantaire blushed and muttered “Hypochondria must be catching.”

This was an intimacy that only just fell under the guise of friendship considering Grantaire's feelings, however Enjolras hoped that it would prompt greater vulnerability on his friends part. 

“I wish you would tell me what troubles you.”

“Nothing. Aside from the general upsetting state of the world which hardly counts as a factor considering-!” Grantaire shrugged him off and forced a laugh “Stop looking at me like that. You don't need to help me Enjolras, not that you could; I am functioning as God intended.”

“Don't speak as if you have no choice in the matter. You could help yourself if only you tried.”

“Ah, but I was helping myself all night” replied Grantaire. 

Enjolras had never met a more frustrating person in his life “God forbid you go against your nature!”

“So you do think I'm a drunk” Grantaire turned to face him, a queer look of triumph glimmering in his dark eyes “That I'm good for nothing.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“You don't deny it!”

“I don't deny the truth” Enjolras snapped.

“I knew it. The argument against Grantaire's improvement is Grantaire. Ad nauseam” Grantaire spread his hands mirthfully

Enjolras stared at him and wondered if the Grantaire who had made such progress in befriending him had just been an illusion; a product of his own optimism and Grantaires glib charm. In past weeks he had even started to think of Grantaire as separate to his habits but nothing could be further from the truth. Whatever else Granaire spoke of, whatever excuses he gave, he chose to drink, to disgrace himself and others and to not do a damn thing about it. He was selfish. Wanting to reap the rewards of change without the effort of changing. Perhaps it was true that Grantaire desired self betterment but it didn't matter even if he did; it wasn't enough, it couldn't be enough Enjolras realised. After all, Republics weren't build on the liquor fumes of men like Grantaire, they were built on action and Enjolras didn't have the time to drag Grantaire up from the pit he insisted on wallowing in. He would forgive Grantaire for his faults and enjoy his company for what it was, but no more than that.

He sighed “I bow to your logic. You cannot help who you are.”

“That's not what you said before.”

“Then we are both guilty of inconsistency. I hope you find the strength within yourself to make good on your promise, Grantaire, because I don't have the enough strength to spare for your needs.”

“I never asked for your help” Grantaire muttered.

The Enjolras of a month ago would have left it at that “I know” said Enjolras, he could not leave Grantaire unhappy “I'm sorry, I did you an injustice. I wanted to help you anyway; you are my friend.” 

Grantaire nodded, Enjolras could think of nothing else to say. He already knew that attempting to interfere with Grantaires life was not the solution and that the best thing for both of them would just be to continue being Grantaire's friend and show him support if he ever found it within himself to improve. Perhaps it would be for the best to create a little distance between himself and Grantaire, so that he would not be tempted to interfere. A part of Enjolras rebelled at that thought; he quashed the feeling sternly.

The last few minutes of their journey were understandably awkward. Neither man spoke. When they arrived outside Grantaire's rooms Grantaire did not immediately head inside. Instead he gathered up both of Enjolras' hands and looked up at him, eyes wide, his face serious. He opened his mouth to speak “I-” Enjolras' breath caught “I'm going for a walk.”

“Pardon.”

“To clear my head” Grantaire was wearing a look, a look of stubborn determination that Enjolras associated with the times Grantaire saw fit to make a nuisance of himself. He released Enjolras' hands and too a couple of steps back “Goodnight. I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course” Enjolras replied.

They turned away from each other and began to walk in opposite directions, Enjolras back to his rooms and Grantaire on his walk. Enjolras walked slowly, he did not know if Grantaire had really gone for a walk or if he was just on the hunt for another drink. It didn't matter, Enjolras reprimanded himself sternly, as his new resolution to distance himself from Grantaire included his thoughts. 

This resolution was well made and Enjolras had every intention of following it, however it proved unnecessary. From that night onwards Grantaire removed himself from Enjolras' life. Having just become accustomed to Grantaires presence, he now only saw him when they were in the company of their friends. Once Enjolras, after going to some effort to secure them some privacy, approched him to apologise, worried his words had been taken as a slight, but Grantaire waved away his apology, assured him he had done nothing to offend and went right back to avoiding him. 

It also appeared that Grantaire was spending less time with his friends as a whole, though he was fairly tight lipped about what he was doing. It was widely assumed he had found himself a mistress, something Enjolras privately and vehemently disbelieved; he could not imagine Grantaire devoting himself to a lover, convinced as he was that Grantaire had given over all his devotion to him. 

Added to the inexplicable distance that Grantaire had created between them was the sense that Grantaire, for the first time since he had known him, was genuinely and consciously applying himself. Enjolras had seen him bite back a cruel comment, quiet himself without first being reprimanded and even refuse drinks. At first Grantaire's conscientiousness could scarcely match his carelessness but he made steady progress slipping less and less back into his old bitter speech. The presence of a mistress was credited for the change in Grantaire and, aside from pleas to meet the mysterious women, the changes were accepted without much comment. At least no comment that Enjolras had heard.

Enjolras was pleased by this of course, but he could not help slighted. Had he ever done anything that would make Grantaire think he would disparage his efforts? Quite the opposite. Part of him wanted to demand whatever ridiculous justification Grantaire had for avoiding him but his pride would not allow it. Unused to being undecided, Enjolras responded to this inner turmoil by applying himself evermore furiously to his work. And so the year came to a close.

It was mid-January and Enjolras was walking, deep in thought, when he felt a hand at his elbow. Enjolras whipped round, as prepared for an enemy as he was for a friend, only to see Grantaire a startled half smile resting on his features. Looking at him up close, for the first time in over two months, Enjolras was startled by how healthy he looked. He had never thought of Grantaire as unhealthy before but now that the shadows under his eyes had faded and his skin had lost it pallor, the difference was startling.  
Grantaire smiled at him, properly this time, displaying a mouth full of crocked teeth.

“Pardon me, I thought I saw my friend Enjolras; on closer inspection I see that I am mistaken. I would not have recognised you but for the weight of the world on your shoulders. Greetings Atlas” 

Enjolras had imagined that when Grantaire decided to return to him, he would be stern with him and remind Grantaire that he was not a toy he could pick up and put down at his pleasure. 

“It has been some time” said Grantaire carefully, his smile dropping, evidently something of what Enjolras was feeling showed on his face.

All of a sudden, Enjolras no longer saw the point of being angry with him “Too long” he agreed, and held out his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's number one unhealthy coping mechnism is drinking  
> his number 2 method is pretending he couldnt care less and being a dick to everyone around him. (not that thats makes his behaviour excusable - no matter what ur going through its no excuse to make life worse for other people).  
> I feel like this was the fastest make up break up in history, oh well.  
> Enjolras would totally fight a physical manifestation of Grantaire's depression and anxiety if such a thing existed.  
> I tried to give Louison some agency because I don't like how in canon she's essentially a faceless tool used to demonstrate Grantaire's indiscriminate dickery.


	7. Chapter 7

Grantaire woke early, too early, and shuddered; he didn't want to be awake. He could tell straight away that it was going to be a bad day. Grantaire sometimes wondered if he was the only person in the world who felt that way, felt terrible, sad and angry all twisted in a knot inside without a reason, or if everyone else also felt the same way and it was just him who was too pathetic to cope with it properly. Probably, he thought, both were true. 

The bed was cold; the floor would be worse. Grantaire got up anyway, relived himself and stumbled over to his washbasin. In that moment nothing was more repulsive to Grantaire than the notion of cleaning himself but it was not up to him. Pinned above his washbasin, where he would see them every morning, Grantaire kept a list of rules. He resented that sheet of paper; it was his lifeline. He read it through, and although part of him rebelled at the dullness of the routine, he persisted. Grantaire was tired of being miserable. He wanted to be happy, wanted genuine contentment not just the dullness he found at the bottom of a bottle, or the guilty joy he found in his friends cheering him up. It had been four months and Grantaire was finally beginning to feel like he wasn't just setting himself up for failure. The list was part of that. Though, of course, like most good idea's he couldn't take credit for it. 

It had started with Enjolras as did so many things. First that shameful dialogue concerning Grantaire's feelings, which was ridiculous and a horrible miscommunication that Grantaire refused to think about(anyone would admire Enjolras, anyone, that didn't make it love, at least not in that way). And then an argument, the glorious terrible burn of Enjolras attention, during which Grantaire said many pathetic and plaintive things which he blushed to recall, resulting, bafflingly, in friendship.

Grantaire enjoyed Enjolras' regard more than he could admit to anyone else, and adored his friendship more than he could admit to himself. It had been enough for a while to bask in that, to throw away his pride and say things just to see Enjolras look approving, but soon doubt crept in and he found himself waiting for Enjolras to realise he wasn't worth the effort. He had somehow fooled Enjolras into thinking that he was any better than the rest of the dissolutes who wandered about Paris. He had offered Enjolras weak platitudes and Enjolras had seen a glorious promise. A sword of Damocles was hanging over Grantaire's head, dangling by the thin thread of Enjolras' regard. Grantaire found this intolerable; he turned back to his bottle and refused to care. If Enjolras saw him clearly and didn't like what he saw, that was Enjolras' loss. Damn him, if he turned away from Grantaire's uglyness. 

He had expected anger from Enjolras or perhaps disgusted indifference but that would have been a relief compared to what he got. Enjolras was worried about him, worse, Enjolras was disappointed in him. Grantaire had not truly believed that Enjolras had any sort of faith in him until he saw him disappointed. He didn't want to see Enjolras disappointed ever again but more than that he didn't want to be the kind of person who would disappoint Enjolras. 

Self-improvement was something Grantaire had always seen as an impossible pipe-dream; it would be nice if he could be a better person, naturally, but only good people strived towards self improvement and while Grantaire was many things good wasn't one of them. But then there was Enjolras and Enjolras believed in him, wanted to be his friend, even when he was angry with him. Grantaire was a thoroughly mediocre person, he knew this, he wasn't stupid whatever else was wrong with him, but that didn't mean he couldn't try. After all, what was wrong with trying? Every other idiot in the world was pushing their own boulder uphill, did Grantaire think he was better than them? Well sometimes, yes, but that wasn't the point! Grantaire had as much right to be an idiot as every other man on earth. And what's more than that he had more motivation than the average man; most men had never met Enjolras. 

He had left Enjolras determined that he would do – something. Grantaire had walked several streets before he realised that he had no plan save for a mindless determination to make himself worthy of the faith Enjolras mysteriously had in him. Then he mulled the problem over with several drinks, none of which inspired him sufficiently. He was headed home discouraged and utterly maudlin, for he had reached that stage of intoxication, musing on the qualities that supposedly made a man admirable. Grantaire shied from the concept of making himself agreeable to himself, it was one thing to deceive or misguide others into finding him agreeable, quite another to deceive himself. This devolved into general contemplation of virtues, which led to musings on Plato, which led to general thoughts on wise old men with beards. 

Grantaire had never met a wise old man and was of the opinion that age didn't bring wisdom; that was just another one of the lies people told themselves to feel better about getting older. Then inspiration struck; he did know a wise old man, one with a full white beard even. Fauchelevent had made a good impression on Grantaire on their first meeting. Grantaire being of contradictory nature, liked upright honest people, though he was disposed to mock them and praised the callow, the cynical and the dissolute, though he held them in contempt. Fauchelevent had helped him before without question and he had all the traditional physical markers of a man inundated with wisdom. In his intoxicated state that was enough to convince Grantaire that he must make haste to Fauchelevent's house and beg for his aid. 

The thin shred of restraint that Grantaire possessed told him that it might be considered bad form to disturb the household of an elderly man and his young daughter after midnight. He didn't return to his rooms, refused to sleep, fearing that his apathy would be restored overnight. When the sky began to lighten Grantaire headed to Fauchelevents house.

The disarray that Grantaire's arrival created in the Fauchelevent household was notable in his absence, Fauchelevent looked him up and down and quietly asked him if he needed help. It occurred to Grantaire later that Fauchelevent, upon seeing a young man wild eyed, exhausted and stinking of alcohol, had assumed his troubles were rather more imminent and life threatening in nature.

Fauchelevent didn't have any answers. Of course he didn't. But he didn't treat Grantaire like a nuisance and listened calmly as Grantaire bared his soul. Fauchelevent cared even though he was complaining about nothing. Grantaire fought down the urge to make himself frustrating, to respond to Fauchelevent's concern insincerely. It was instinct for him to convince other people that he was a hopeless cause in order to ease the guilt in his mind when he inevitably failed to change. Miss Fauchelevent joined them, insisting on being included, which Grantaire allowed on the principle of her not being dressed like a gossip and the fact that she practically glowed with honest goodness. He later found out that her motivations were not so much about helping him as they were about injecting some novelty into her cloistered existence but that could be forgiven, by that point Grantaire would have happily forgiven Cosette anything. 

It was Cosette who had proposed a list like he was a child who kept forgetting to do his lessons(as a child Grantaire always forgot his lessons). Grantaire scoffed; Cosette scoffed back harder. He let her have her way, but only because he wasn't in the habit of arguing with surprisingly intimidating children. Together they built the skeleton of an ordered life, recorded in Cosettes neat cursive. Grantaire had mocked the idea but breaking down the monumental task of becoming good into a numbered list made the impossible seem manageable. He left them late in the morning, effusive with thanks, and collapsed onto his bed where he slept solidly until the next morning. 

The creation of the list was a coup, sticking to it was a battle. Number twelve on the list was sobriety. He had blurted it out in a fit of valour, a memory of the elegant dismissal Enjolras give to any offer of alcohol stirring up the courage in him. It was only later he realised how much his life revolved around drinking. Sober he was aware how trite and meaningless the things he said were, sober he had too much time to fill. After two days he defiantly scratched that one out and replaced it with the laughably arbitrary “drink less”, feeling like a coward. That too might have been a failure had it not been for his friends. Bossuet noticed first, noticed too that he didn't want to talk about it, and assisted him subtly. Along with Joly he stopped offering Grantaire drinks or intercepted them if they were headed his way. More importantly they engaged with him whenever Grantaire grew restless; where a drink would have dulled his nerves, his friends soothed them. His days felt more uncertain, he felt uncertain, but it got easier and he felt better, not happier, at least not all the time, but like the world wasn't as grim as it had been and like he wasn't as worthless as before. That was what he clung to on the cold mornings when he felt like giving up.

It became a running joke that he was improving himself for the sake of a beloved Mistress; each time this was said Grantaire found he could not look at Enjolras. 

He had not planned to return to Fauchelevent's house but Cosette had insistence that he should, then, in the way of these odd little friendships that sometimes spring up, one visit rolled into the next. In their company Grantaire made sure to watch his tongue and to his credit he succeeded for the most part, Cosette's vocabulary suffered no significant debasement. Grantaire could not think why Fauchelevent allowed his continued presence but for the fact that Cosette willed it; it appeared that he doted upon her beyond reason. Still, he wasn't about to protest as their friendship was dear to him; Cosette was cheerful, Fauchelevent the possessor of a surprisingly macabre sense of humour and Touissant had progressed from referring to him as “That wild young man” to using his name.

He never made this friendship public, partly because it was difficult to express why he liked this old man and his young daughter and partly because he had been unknowingly influenced by Fauchelevent's secretive attitude. 

As Grantaire worked consciously to change himself from the inside, Cosette went through changes which were completely involuntary on her part. It was curious to see the child Cosette morph into a beautiful stranger. While Touissant was proud and pleased, Grantaire could see the slight pain in Fauchelevent's face. With his daughter heading out into the world, pretty and fresh as a flower it would be any fathers concern that some rascal would pluck her. Apparently he was not concerned about Grantaire being that rascal, something Grantaire took as a great insult. Grantaire was also dismayed by Cosette's burgeoning beauty though this sentiment was rather petty; he had lost an ally in ugliness. But it was better by far for a young woman to be pretty, so after his initial dismay he was happy for her. 

And so they came to the present, he finished shaving, washed the last of the soap form his face and gave his hair a quick brush through; it was getting long again, Grantaire made a mental note to go to the barbers. By the time he had made his bed, dressed and eaten, Grantaire felt a little steadier. He practised a smile in the mirror, revolting but that could not be helped, and took a deep breath. 

The night previously, Joly had boasted of plans he had made with Musichetta, which inevitably meant that both he and Bossuet would also be indisposed for breakfast as well. He ached for company. It was tempting to hunt them down anyway, Grantaire knew they were too kind to protest too much about the imposition. No, that kind of selfishness was in the past, he had other friends, friends who weren't off having love fests like selfish bastards. Prouvaire, then, yes, Prouvaire a living personification of goodness, additionally his usual haunts were predictable. He stood, anxious to be out of his empty rooms, rushed down into the street and then stopped dead. 

Enjolras was waiting outside his rooms. His colour was high; Grantaire wondered if he was coming down with something

“I was just passing by” Enjolras told him “I wondered if you had eaten yet?”

Sometimes Grantaire was happy without even trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's Pov I think I'm significantly worse at writing from his perspective but hey ho here we go  
> I just find the concept of Grantaire just showing up and being like hey mentor me to Valjean kind of funny.  
> I'm not portraying Grantaire as an alcoholic because while im sure that their are writers out there who could tackle the subject matter well while still maintaining a light rom-com atmosphere I am not one of them.  
> Valjean is great at giving other people good life advice then just not following it himself.


	8. Chapter 8

Enjolras gripped his fork tightly; breakfast was not going to plan. 

Not that he had planned on inviting Grantaire to eat with him; it had occurred to him that morning as he was stepping out of his door, that it wasn't so very far to Grantaire's rooms. Arriving there had been another matter; Enjolras had never stepped foot inside Grantaire's room's so he didn't feel like he could invite himself in. He checked his watch, it wasn't early for him, but the impression he got was that Grantaire was a late sleeper. It would be rude to wake him, inexcusable, really to have him come to the door, not even dressed, still rumpled from sleep. 

Enjolras was not a stranger to his friends in a state of undress, or even, on a few perturbing occasions, nudity but he the idea of seeing Grantaire in a similar state was... uncomfortable. There was no time to meditate on that strange discomfort for at that moment Grantaire exited the building. All the doubts in Enjolras' mind about his half-formed plan melted away in the face of Grantaire's obvious pleasure at seeing him. 

This happy state continued until they walked into the hostelry Enjolras had chosen and saw, settled down with a full plate and that day's newspaper, Combeferre. Then Grantaire sent for Prouvaire who brought Feuilly along, having bumped into him on the way. Hence the quiet breakfast became a merry gathering. 

Feuilly commandeered Combeferre's newspaper and began devouring it from front to back, a few articles caught his attention, these he exclaimed over then tore neatly out and folded in his pocket. These articles would no doubt make reappearances, dug up to illustrate or disprove a point. Enjolras found himself being lectured on the mysteries of the lower intestine by Combeferre who, with the assistance of a strip of ham and two cherry tomatoes, made the subject engaging. Opposite Grantaire watched Prouvaire critically as he attempted to retie his cravat in the Italian style. Feuilly left first, having to get to work, then much later Prouvaire. It was a virtue of how well they knew each other, that Enjolras was able to convey to Combeferre the importance of his immediate departure, via the medium of meaningful looks.

Combeferre patted his pockets mechanically “Oh dear, I seem to have forgotten something in my rooms. I should go and fetch it”

They bid each other farewell, Enjolras distracting Grantaire from Combeferre's less that convincing egress by offering him some more Coffee.

Grantaire shook his head “The stuff here is too bitter to be good for anything but waking you up. There are at least twenty good Coffee shops nearby that put it to shame.”

“Which one would you recommend?”

Enjolras was being led to a Coffee shop that Grantaire had described as “so-so” which Enjolras knew to mean “very good indeed”. Grantaire had brought a sweet crepe that he gazed at tenderly as they walked.

They had only just set out when Enjolras' eye was caught by a young woman dressed in black surrounded a swarm of pastel bonnets. There was something familiar about her, something in her face, the shade of her hair. Enjolras nudged Grantaire and pointed her out.

“That girl. She seems familiar?”

“That's because you've met her. Fauchelevent's child remember?” Grantaire reached up and patted his shoulder sympathetically “Are you so advanced in years that your memory is failing you?” 

“I'm not so decrepit that I can't teach you respect.”

“Oh, I would like to see-” Enjolras snatched his crepe out of his hand and held it aloft.

“Enjolras” said Grantaire calmly, after several frantic jumps “I would like you to know that contrary to your state of physical elevation, spiritually you are the size of a garden pea.”

Enjolras handed the crepe back “Just as long as you understand.”

Their little skirmish attracted the attention of the young women and, to Enjolras' surprise, as the passed each other Miss Fauchelevent acknowledged them. Or rather she acknowledged Grantaire with a tilt of her head and a smile. Grantaire smiled back then quick as a flash he poked his tongue out at her, Miss Fauchelevent showed neither surprise nor offence; her smile deepened wickedly and she tossed her head. 

Enjolras blinked “I was not aware you had kept up an acquaintance with her.”

“Ah, well. I returned to thank them for their help and a sort of friendship grew from that I suppose. I think Fauchelevent sees me as a wayward child he had to lead by the hand towards the righteous path. I dine with them sometimes, you know how it is.”

Enjolras did not, in fact, know how it was. Their brief exchange and the implied intimacy of its cryptic nature had struck Enjolras; he felt that it was affront.

“She doesn't think - never mind.”

“Think what? asked Grantaire curiously.

“That you are, that you have designs on her.”

Grantaire laughed “No fear. She knows that I am to handsome for her.”

Enjolras remembered when Grantaire had denied being in love with him; he had laughed then too. The thought disturbed him so he attempted to bury it, after all Grantaire spent time with numerous women; this girl wasn't special. Still it could not be denied that it was Fauchelevent's household that had been harbouring Grantaire during his mysterious absences in months past. Why would he attempt to conceal the relationship if it was so meaningless? 

“Why haven't you mentioned this before?” 

There were very few answers that Enjolras would have found acceptable in his state of rising agitation, hesitation was out of the question and yet that was exactly what Grantaire did. Then, worse, he changed the subject.

“Is that Bahorel up ahead?” as far as misdirections went Enjolras felt it was insultingly poor but looking ahead he could indeed see the indomitable form of his friend sauntering towards them.

“Enjolras! Monsieur R!” Bahorel stopped before them, eyes bright with unholy glee “Guess who is being honoured today at the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois.”

“God?”

“Don't be facetious, R. No. The long dead Duke of Berry.”

Enjolras lent forward “A funeral service? You wouldn't care so much about just that.”

“Indeed! They have turned to a demonstration in favour of the Count of Chambord taking the throne.”

Enjolras made an involuntary sound at the back of his throat; a mix of disgust and indignation.

“My reaction exactly. Well, it won't be going on for much longer most people I've met so far are ready for a little light disruption. I hope they stand by their principles; I could stand to knock them down. I must go, I have a few stops to make before I head over there.”

Bahorel raced off again, Grantaire's mouth twisted. 

“Bahorel: always eager for a fight. Throw a Church into the mix and its a surprise he stopped to talk. Do you think his optimism is misplaced?”

"With such a difference of opinion I would be surprised if people weren't provoked into violence.”

“Violence being the most expedient form of debate.”

“A regime that opposes the will of its people itself commits violence against the people. Letting them go unanswered is condoning that violence.”

“The Legitimists are not our regime” Grantaire muttered.

“But they were and they could be again if they go unchallenged.”

“It won't change their minds about anything. When a thousand republicans show up they won't look into the face of the honest working man fighting for his right to freedom, they will see a filthy mob looking for trouble. We will be digging the well of their devotion ever deeper, they will say “If only the true King took the throne he would take these blighters to task.”

His hands were trembling, Enjolras caught them up and pressed them firmly, stroked across his knuckles until Grantaire's breathing began to even out. 

“I know, but we are not standing against them to change their minds. We are standing against them to show the people who do agree with us that the fight is not over, that it will never be over as long as any one of us draws breath. Despair is a weed that will grow even on stony ground; Hope must be cultivated.”

“You fancy yourself a Gardener now?”

Enjolras felt his face heat “It was merely a metaphor. I-”

“Peace” Grantaire smiled, albeit shakily “It was very inspiring, even I felt the stirring of something valorous within me.” he paused “You're going to join Bahorel?”

“I want to see what happens at least. These things move quickly, a few bricks thrown at a church today might lead to a republic tomorrow. You don't have to come if its too much for you.”

“Too much for me” mimicked Grantaire, derisively “I risk no more than the rest of us and much less than some of us.”

“Still, I would not have you force yourself.”

“I'm not some fainting maiden fumbling her way through her wedding night, Enjolras; I am one of you, more or less, I survived 30' did I not?”

“You drank through 30'”

“Am I never to live that down? I'm beginning to think that even if I lived in perfect sobriety all my life people would still be calling a drunkard on my deathbed. If I needed a drink to make it bearable I wouldn't come, don't worry yourself” Grantaire kicked at the pavement and shrugged “But I don't think it will be so very painful. I expect if we make haste there will be grand speeches to make light of or if they fail in that regard perhaps the experience might expand my mind. I consider myself, immodestly I admit, a connoisseur but I am nothing compared to those well coiffed fellows; a Legitimist is an astounding creature for his palate can discern what breed of cow the boot-leather he is lapping on came from. And if it comes to blows I'll do my level best not to get knocked flat. Perhaps I should wear my Sunday best to throw off the Bourgoise?"

“That might make you a target on both sides.”

“If I am a target then so is Coufeyrac, the Popinjay. Besides you will vouch for me wont you? No one could doubt your allegiance.”

“Always” vowed Enjolras and they smiled at each other. When Enjolras strode of towards Place du Louvre, Grantaire was never more than a step behind him.

Later the events of early February would be described in exultant terms by Bahorel; churches were overturned and riots rocked Paris. The government made a few appeasing gestures which functionally meant nothing; the fleur-de-lys was removed from the royal coat of arms. This appeasement did nothing to prevent the continuing civil unrest that occurred all over France over the coming summer months. Enjolras felt alive with the promise of a coming rebellion, he felt that the people were becoming more and more motivated to see a new Republic. His energies, inexhaustible though they were, seemed doubled. This may have partly been due to the increased presence of Grantaire in his life. There was something about him that made Enjolras want to do better; to be more convincing, stronger and wiser. 

He told himself that it was because he didn't like to see Grantaire, who still tended towards pessimism, uncertain, that he wanted to have enough faith for the both of them. This was only partially true. At some point during that long hot summer between the civil unrest, his studies and his constant preparation for an uprising that might come at any day, Enjolras realised that, he could not say when precisely, he had fallen in love with Grantaire. It would be considered ridiculous, Enjolras knew, for Grantaire was not what most people would think of when you uttered the word beloved. He was too sharp and too soft by turn. He was not beautiful. He was not even plain. Did Enjolras care? If you believe the answer to be yes then I don't think you fully understand the conventions of this genre.

Enjolras cherished the realisation of his feelings. In his head he began to refer to Grantaire by his given name, something that caused him to blush frequently, a cause for concern amongst his friends. Enjolras was, as we have perhaps discussed before, a man of action. He had a gift for perceiving the root cause of a problem and planning to tackle it. It had been easy to deal with Grantaire back when he was a problem he needed to fix, now that Grantaire was the solution he found himself at sea. 

Grantaire loved him, yes, but that didn't mean that Grantaire would want to commit himself in the way that Enjolras desired. Nor could he bear having Grantaire only for the days of his youth and then losing him to the demands of society; a wife chosen by his Father, children born just to extend the family line. Enjolras' untested heart trembled; his love for his country, for its people and his friends was selfless; to feel himself become selfish in his love for Grantaire shook his soul. He worried too that he would become less devoted to the cause that he had made his lives work to champion, if he allowed himself to love. If he had confided into any of his friends about this they would have told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was being stupid. His reasons for not seeking counsel were a little cowardly; he knew that if Coufeyrac ever discovered his feelings, his decisive friend would insist upon a resolution. Given how thoroughly he had destroyed any hopes that Grantaire might once have held, he could not hope for Grantaire to renew his suit independently so any action must be his. Not being predisposed to brooding Enjolras kept didn't let it distract him but still would meditate on it frequently, far more frequently than he would like to admit.

One of these moment of reverie came early one evening in the Musain, Grantaire was settled besides him building up a house from a pack of cards. They were settled in quiet companionship, the bulk of their friends having not yet arrived. 

“Do you think some that goals are unachievable?” Enjolras asked him.

“Yes” said Grantaire bluntly.

Enjolras' deflated, and Grantaire winced apologetically “I didn't mean that, well I did a little, for example I don't think you could fly or turn lead into gold, but I don't think your avarice reaches such heights. You are sensible, ergo your goals are achievable."

How profound” Enjolras said.

Grantaire reddened “Not really. Although even if your goals weren't realistic, they would be just. Justice is worth perusing even if its hopeless. We are not businesses with accounting sheets, marking down profit and loss. Our actions should not be about the greatest gain but about doing what we believe to be right.”

Grantaire's tone had turned slightly mocking, Enjolras couldn't tell if he was laughing at himself or aping someone else, or possibly parodying the style of some Pamphlet. He didn't care because underneath Grantaire was terribly and utterly earnest. Enjolras didn't take pleasure in other peoples discomfort but seeing Grantaire's colour heighten as he uttered such fine sentiments satisfied Enjolras in a manner that was difficult for him to quantify. He thought Grantaire would be less embarrassed to undress in public. Grantaire collapsed his house of cards and leant forward towards him.

“Really Enjolras, if something is troubling you I'm sure I can help, even if its only to listen. I might have not honed many skills but I do have two excellent working ears.”

He was very close. Enjolras who could think of nothing to say, knew exactly what he wanted to do.

A smart black coat containing one Pontmercy burst through the door followed swiftly by a harried looking Coufeyrac. Said Pontmercy was visibly enraged. His shoulders heaved as he stalked into the room, his head swivelling like a deranged owl. Enjolras looked at Coufeyrac, who shrugged. Pontmercy's eyes landed on then his eyes landed on Grantaire. 

“Stand up and face me, Monseuir” said Pontmercy coldly.

The room fell silent, in another time or place this silence might have been tense but as of this moment it was just deeply confused. Shrugging, Grantaire stood. He tucked his hands into his pockets and lent back on his heels as Pontmercy stared at him, eyes narrowed.

Grantaire opened his mouth to speak; Pontmercy lept forward and hit him soundly on the jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My laptop finally died so now I have a new laptop and goodness its so light and tiny its like a laptop for an elf.  
> MARIUS PUNCH  
> I'm so not a historian so I apologise for all the gross historical inaccuracy thats probably contained within.  
> I have been trying for about three consecutive chapters to write a good dick joke for Grantaire........ one day.  
> urgh romance whose idea was it to write a romance how uncool of them


	9. Chapter 9

The confusion that followed Pontmercy's bizarre and unwarranted attack on Grantaire is such that a description of the principle players of the scene and their locations now becomes necessary. Next to the door leading outside and away from the action sat Prouvaire, smoking a pipe. Diagonal to him in a corner was the table where Enjolras was still seated. Coufeyrac had grabbed a struggling Pontmercy by the collar and was pulling him away from Grantaire who had fallen from the force of the blow next to a chair. 

It was from this position that Grantaire, still clutching at his jaw, shouted “What was that for?”

Pontmercy answered him in strident tones “I will not allow you to besmirch the honour of a sweet, gentle young women.”

Grantaire responded by throwing a chair at him. It fell short. 

Enjolras, already in motion hurdled over it, towards where Coufeyrac who had already recognised the danger Enjolras represented was attempting to stop Pontmercy from struggling toward Grantaire. Pontmercy had just elbowed his way to freedom when Enjolras stepped in front of him. 

He glared “Stop this, we are all reasonable men.”

Pontmercy, caught up in his rage, tried to push past him “Forgive me Enjolras, but this is not something I can let go unchecked.”

Enjolras stepped back, this was not, as Pontmercy took it, a sign of surrender. Violence was never Enjolras' first recourse but upon deciding force was necessary, he became pragmatic. Close quarters are never advantageous to the party with longer reach, hence Enjolras' retreat. He was aware that Grantaire was still behind him, scrabbling sounds suggesting that he was stumbling to his feet. It stung that Pontmercy had attacked Grantaire with such strange provocation (a woman? What woman?) and part of him didn't regret the turn this encounter was taking. 

In many ways they were similar in aspect; both had few true passions which burned brightly for there rarity, but where Pontmercy was a forest fire; Enjolras was a forge. To Enjolras, however, there were few similarities between them, Pontmercy after all was vague and a little niaeve, almost apolitical but still trustworthy so to it felt unfair to raise a hand against him, or it would have were it not for the prospect of retribution. Enjolras readied himself for battle but found his way blocked.

Prouvaire had appeared besides them, and was pushing them firmly apart, those gentle features set firm, “Everyone sit down.”

They both sat.

Grantaire had also crawled back into his chair and was rubbing his reddened jaw. Enjolras sent one final warning glance at Pontmercy then prised Grantaire's hands away so he could examine him. 

“Now” said Prouvaire standing, arms crossed, at the head of the table “Why did you punch Grantaire?”

Pontmercy sat with his hands crossed in his lap, addressed Grantaire “You can't have her. I won't allow you to take advantage of her then throw her aside.”

Grantaire closed his eyes “Which tender young virgin have I deflowered now? There have been so many.”

“Dose she mean nothing to you?” muttered Pontmercy, clenching his fists.

“Good god man, he would be able to tell you exactly what this woman means to him if only you'd tell us her name” exclaimed Coureyrac.

“Miss Fauchelevent” said Pontmercy as if it was obvious. 

Grantaire exhaled wheezely “Cosette?”

Enjolras withdrew his hands.

Pontmercy jolted “Cosette” he whispered tenderly, then he narrowed his eyes “You call her Cosette?”

“Only after I'd seen her c-”

“Alright” said Coufeyrac loudly, placed a hand on Pontmercy's ridged shoulders “Stop teasing Marius, R he's already apologised”

“No he hasn't” interjected Enjolras sharply.

Coufeyrac's reassuring smile was starting to look strained “Well, he will, won't you, Marius. You regret punching Grantaire, don't you. It was all just in the heat of the moment”

Pontmercy gave a nod “I apologise. So you're really not” he lowered his voice “intimate with her.”

“Would it make you love her any less if I had been?”

“No” cried Pontmercy “ there is nothing she could do that would make me think any less of her.”

“Isn't that the only answer you need, then?” Grantaire replied philosophically. That he was still refusing to clarify his relationship with the girl prompted a unexpected feeling of kinship with Pontmercy in Enjolras. 

Grantaire stared at Pontmercys trembling lip and sighing, relented “Nothing impure has transpired between us. On my honour. Why would you ever think it had?"

Pontmercy blinked “Coufeyrac, mentioned that you knew each other.”

Coufeyrac looked injured as if it wasn't his advice that had almost lead to the ruin of Enjolras' relationship with Grantaire all those months ago “I said that they knew each other. Nothing biblical was implied.”

“The implication was in your tone” said Pontmercy apologetically. The drama of the conflict seemed ridiculous in contrast with its mundane cause. He looked at Grantaire beseechingly “Has she ever mentioned me to you?”

Grantaire, the shock of the attack over, had evidently decided that the whole affair had been an amusing diversion, for he faced Pontmercy quite amicably “Not as of yet. How do you know her?”

Blushing deeply Pontmercy explained. Apparently he had seen her walking with her Father and they had exchanged “Meaningful looks”. Enjolras had to restrain himself from making comment.

“Would you perhaps deliver a letter to her?” asked Pontmercy.

“Why not? I could even introduce you to her Father if you like.”

“I'd rather a letter. I need space to organise my thoughts” Pontmercy stood up, energised again “I'll be back before the night is over.”

He didn't concern himself with any other closing remarks, presumably already composing his love letter in his mind's eye. The door slammed shut behind him, and in the wake of his departure they all slumped around the table, exhausted by the turmoil. 

Coufeyrac was the first to speak “That Pontmercy has finally found something to place his convictions in.”

Grantaire rubbed his jaw ruefully “I would be happy that he's violently in love if only he didn't love so violently.”

Enjolras checked the bruise again; it didn't look as bad as it had first appeared. 

“And yet you agreed to act as his Cupid” Grantaire smiled, small and secretive and Enjolras' grew suspicious “What are you planning?” 

“Nothing I will keep to my promise. Poor Marius, King, nay Baron, of indistinct pleasures. The only climax he knows is the rising crescendo of his plaintive love song. But Cosette, she too is an innocent, true they are well matched in that regard, but of a wilder shade. Pontmercy who meanders from exquisite misery to exquisite misery will be like an anathema to her merry heart. In short, he is a fog pursuing a thunderstorm. She won't want him. His heart will be thrown in to turmoil, her heart will be gratified by the attention and I will be entertained”

“And if his courtship is successful?” asked Coufeyrac.

“It wont be.”

He is very handsome” mused Prouvaire.

Grantaire conceded the point “Then I shall pretend to have know that they were well suited from the start and try to wrangle the position of best man.”

Coufeyrac kicked his heels up onto the table “Like hell you will.” 

Cosette sat in her garden. The day was still and hot and with no refreshing breezes to be found, she had found it unbearable to stew in the heat at her writing desk, so had taken her correspondence outside to read in the shade of the garden. It was also nice to look out at passer-bys and know that if they looked back they would see a young lady of letters, someone admired at by her friends and asked after by handsome young men at parties. Not that she had been to a proper party yet, but Cosette was an optimistic young woman, she knew that she had time enough for all the parties in in world. 

As for young men, well, they were nice to talk about but Cosette hadn't though she wanted one of her own, at least not until recently. She thought then, reflexively, of that man who walked nearby when she went on her walks with her Papa. He was very handsome and lately he had began to look at her so longingly that she was surprised her Papa hadn't seemed to notice.

It was silly to feel so excited about a stranger, her friends, Violet in particular who already had a fiancee and was therefore considered an authority, had told her that love wasn't really like in the books. No love at first sight, no vows of devotion. It was important to remember, schooled Violet, that men are very fickle in comparison to the fictional ideal. Far better to find someone who suited you socially and financially, someone with a steady personality. The group of young women that Cosette most commonly mixed with affected grave wisdom and agreed that while they could swoon over the Gothic heroes of their novels, in reality amicability was far preferable to passion. 

Cosette absorbed all this advice with due attention, then disregarded it all entirely. It might be silly to see a young man in the park and think that they had fallen in love over a few lingering glances; it would be even sillier not to at least try and find out if it were true. If only she could talk to him just for a second, if she heard his voice, looked him straight in his eyes, then she would know. But how to start a conversation? He seem content just to look at her. And approaching him with her Papa in tow... her Father had grown distant since she had made friends with some of the girls she had met after mass, or shopping for new clothes. Cosette thought that he might be lonely. 

Lately she had been trying to fix that, spending more time with him, going on long walks and joining him when he went out to give alms, but nothing she did seemed to lessen the shadows behind his eyes. Seeing her interested in a man would just remind her Papa that she was growing up, that she might leave one day, leave him. It was too much to think about so Cosette pushed her darker thoughts away and returned to happy contemplation of her young man. It didn't have to mean anything yet, she told herself a little crossly, so there was nothing to worry about.

The gate gave a rattle and Cosette was startled by a small package falling into the grass next to her feet. A little brown paper bag. Cosette picked it up, and smiled at its contents, then turned towards the gate where there lent the droll figure of the first friend she had made in Paris. He had hooked an arm through the railings to throw the package and as she approached he waved it then pressed his face to the bars.

“Good Afternoon Cosette. Won't you let me in?”

“I don't know Father told me never to let strangers into the house.”

“I'm no stranger” he cried indignantly.

“If you were my friend you would know how to address me.”

Grantaire groaned and slumped his whole body against the fence “You've grown very uppity since you made friends with all those frivolous mademoiselles. I'm not sure I like it; you used to respect me.”

“I don't remember ever respecting you, they're not frivolous and it doesn't matter if you like it or not” said Cosette, tossing her head “for its my garden you want to get into.”

“Madame Euphraise, Mistress of your domain, I would go down on my knees but these trousers are new. Please allow me entry, I beg of you.”

Cosette opened the paper bag and withdrew a stick of Barley sugar which she proffered to Grantaire through the bars. He took it neatly between his lips and drew back as she unlocked the gate.

“Thank you” he exclaimed around his sweet, as he sloped into her garden. He looked around “Where is your Father anyway”

“He's gone out.” 

They walked back towards the bench together, where Grantaire dug into his pocket and removed a thick wad of papers.

“You have an admirer.”

Cosette was not fickle but it wasn't like she had made any promises to the man in the park and only a rock would be unmoved by admiration. 

“Oh? Who is he?” she said around her own stick of Barley sugar.

“Your prospective Romeo's name is Marius Pontmercy.”

Cosette, mildly interested, asked the usual questions you ask about a stranger. The answers shifted her interest from mild to absolute in a twinkling of an eye. Cosette had developed an excellent poker face during her years at the convent; a group of schoolgirls, however well-behaved, will inevitably develop some capacity for subterfuge, doubly so if they are under the guardianship of a group of nuns. This talent she now put to exceptional use. Even as she trembled under the realisation that this Marius Pontmercy was her stranger from the Luxembourg Gardens, her face remained serene. 

“He wrote you a letter, to introduce himself” Grantaire waggled the bundle tantalisingly. 

The letter was like a miracle for Cosette. She had just been wondering if she was imagining a romance for herself and now suddenly there was proof that it was all real. Cosette noted the thickness of the missive; she had enchanted him. She discarded her Barley stick, for it is very difficult to feel alluring while eating sweets, and indicated with a casual toss of her head that she wouldn't mind at all, really, if Grantaire left the letter on the bench besides her, so that she could read it when she found the time. He did so.

She looked at Grantire who was sucking his Barley stick and gazing at her expectantly.

“Touissant, said that she was going to make some lemonade” remarked Cosette “Could you go in and see if she has?”

“A disgrace making your guest work. You just want privacy to read your love letter, are you afraid I'll see you blush?”

Cosette ignored him “That lemonade wont fetch itself.”

Grantaire smiled smugly but left.

“And don't let her carry it out this time, have some manners” She shouted after him, Grantaire waved in acknowledgement as he walked up into the house. 

Cosette waited until he was out of sight before falling upon the letter. She took a breath to compose herself before opening it with trembling fingers. Cosette had never received a letter from a man before. Strictly speaking that wasn't quite true but she didn't really consider Grantaire a man, more a strange Pagan creature that had taken on human form, nor his notes letters. So you can imagine the effect this letter had on her. Cosette read all seven and a half pages in a flash then, Grantaire having not returned, turned back to the first page and started re-reading it again. Her heart beat fast in her chest, she felt embarrassed, she felt flattered. The man in the park – Marius – had signed himself “Yours”.

The door creaked as Grantaire sidled outside carrying a tray, Cosette clutched at the paper and stood up. She had see Grantaire splattered in vomit, drowned in self- pity and crying on multiple occasions. There was nothing she could do to humiliate her self in front of him. Carefully she placed Marius' letter atop all of her other correspondence.

“R” she said entreatingly, when he had reached her and placed the tray between them on the bench “you have to help me deliver a reply.”

“What you liked that twaddle that he wrote? I bet it was full of stale metaphors and disturbingly jushing discriptions of your hair"

Cosette scowled, Grantaire always acted like he knew best “He's very genuine; you can tell that he means every word.”

“He might be ugly.”

“He's very dashing” she defended automatically. Grantaire looked at her “I've seen him in the park” she explained.

“Oh god. You mean to tell me that Pontmercy wasn't suffering from delusions when he told me his feelings were requited with just a glance. You know he hit me? Your lover is a violent man.”

“I know, he apologised for it in his letter”

Grantaire threw up this hands in exasperation “Even if you like him now eventually he'll make you miserable. I've never met a married couple who could bear to spend more then a minute together. Give it five years and he'll be off sneaking around with harlots and you'll be left living on the wage of a Solicitor with too many children in some unhappy country town where the rent is cheap and the neighbours are insular, with nobody to talk to but a half dozen mewling infants and an incompetent country bumpkin of a maid who won't know how to properly turn down the sheets on your cold, lonely marriage bed” 

Cosette poured herself a glass of lemonade and took a sip “What did we say about negativity”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, then deflated and nodded “I'm sorry. Its only that... somehow I never though you would grow up. I imagined you would always be living here. That I would always be able to see you and we would always be friends.”

“We can still be friends if I get married. I wont accept a suitor who wont accept my loved ones. Anyway perhaps I will never marry, maybe, I don't know. How much do you have to like someone to marry them?”

“You're asking the wrong man” a sigh, then “so shall I go and tell him that his suit had been accepted? He could come visit you here. You might even have a conversation.”

“No!” Cosette's cry startled them both, she took a deep breath and moderated her voice “He can't come here”

“Why not?” Grantaire scrunched up his nose.

“Father. I don't want to worry him.” 

“I know what I said before but Pontmercy is perfectly harmless, good family too, that I know of. He has nothing to worry about, I'll tell him that, for all the weight a recommendation of character has from me.”

“It's not that” Cosette sighed, it felt awful to say it out loud, that their happyness was a little more fragile than she would like. It felt like she was betraying her dear Papa by admitting there were things she couldn't bear to confront him with “He tries to hide it but he's gotten very quiet ever since I made so many friends. I think he's afraid that I'm leaving him. A man, any man, would just make things worse. I just want to give him a little more time to get used to the idea of me growing up”

“I don't know” It was ridiculous, thought Cosette, that Grantaire who identified himself as a recovering libertine should have any qualms “I shouldn't like to lie to Fauchelevent.”

“You wont have to if he doesn't ask you about it. And why would he?" Grantaire still looked hesitant; Cosette clasped his hands “Please, R, its not asking for much. It will only be a few letters at most, just so I can be sure I really like him. There's no point upsetting Papa if it turns out that we have nothing in common, or if I find him dull. Please, you're the only one I can rely on.”

Cosette knew that Grantaire knew that her speech had been comprised of nothing but cheap manipulation. Grantaire knew that Cosette knew that it had worked like a charm.

“And that's the end of it” Grantaire shook his head in theatrical despair “she admired his prose, Enjolras, she is lost.”

They sat in Grantaire's rooms, the heat of the day had long since faded so they had built up a fire which was the only source of light in the room. 

“The worst of it all is that she doesn't want her father to think she's ready to fly the nest and so she has dragged me into conspiracy with her. It's a little frightening that women get so cunning so young.” 

“Pontmercy could always go and live with them” pointed out Enjolras lazily, his investment in the ongoing saga of Pontmercy's romantic endeavour having decidedly lessened since Grantaire had been definitively cast in the role of matchmaker. 

This idea was met with approval “I never thought of that. I'll share the idea with her when we next meet. How happy they will all be together, economical too.”

Grantaire hummed laughingly and they sat quietly for some time until suddenly Grantaire asked him “Have you ever been in love?” Enjolras opened his mouth to speak but Grantaire cut him off “If you say something about our country I will throw you out.”

This was the moment, an ideal moment to tell him. He wished he had rehearsed this moment properly, wished that he had asked for advice from his friends, mockery and interference be dammed. In the end he let his silence linger on and on, until it became meaningful.

Straightening in his chair, Grantaire stared at him in surprise “You're serious? Who? When?”

“It's” Enjolras wet his lips “I don't know if I should say.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes “Then why bring it up? Very well then, I will fill in the details myself. You fell in love before you came to Paris, with a childhood playmate. A studious girl from a good family who loves her Country and wants freedom for all its people. She will seek no trivial pleasures but devote herself earnestly to the betterment of herself and her society. Have I hit the mark?”

“Your aim is a little off” dead-panned Enjolras, then was distracted by indignation “Wait you were just describing me, do you really think I'm so narcissistic?”

“I couldn't imagine you being with anyone who didn't share your goals, I could only imagine you married if you were to be running an egalitarian household raising a little army of rebels”

“Sharing my views doesn't mean they have to be identical to me, what would the point be of marrying my double?”

“Aside for the purposes of multiplication?” Grantaire grinned at him as Enjolras wrinkled his nose “Alright then, lonely martyrdom it is”

“That's not- I wouldn't be opposed to being with someone. Wasting my time chasing after someone I don't love; I couldn't do that. But if I loved them, why would I deny myself? There is enough misery in the world without making more for myself”

Grantaire stood and wandered over to poke at the fire “You've always seemed so focused, I can scarcely credit the idea“ he said softly.

“I'm not saying I would abandon our goals, just that-”

“I know. That why I.” Grantaire froze, kneeling by the fire. Enjolras watched his back tense up as he stirred the embers of the fire aggressively.

“What's the matter?”

Grantaire kept his back turned away from him “Nothing I really think you're too admirable. Incorruptible man of the republic. It makes me wonder what kind of person you could have fallen in love with.”

“Well- ” Enjolras' heart seized up in a torture of excitement. Grantaire acting so forlorn over the idea of him being love could only be a good sign “Not someone like me. Someone who knows what's right and does it, despite their doubts. Not wise enough for how clever they are. They care even though they like to pretend they don't and – there are so many things I could say about them but what really matters is that I love them. It pains me to quote another in this moment but I think Pontmercy said it best the other day; there is nothing they could do or say that would make them not worth the effort of loving.”

“Now you're speaking in cliches as well” Grantire laughed too loudly “It must be something in the water.”

Enjolras walked over and prised the poker from his hands, leaning it against the grate. 

“You're not going to ask who it is?”

“No, it won't mean anything to me anyway, unless I know them” Grantaire flinched “Do I know them?”

And because Enjolras, even by his own estimation, was capable of being a bit of a bastard sometimes, he said “You know them.”

Grantaire stood up “I should go.”

“This is your home.”

Blinking Grantaire stepped back towards the fireplace “Ah, yes, well, then, you should go home. It's late.”

Enjolras straightened. If he were accustomed to drinking he might have been better equipped to handle the intoxication he was feeling.

“Not yet” he stated. 

He pushed Grantaire back till he hit the mantelpiece. Words, after all, wonderful and powerful as they could be, were only ever a prelude to action. There was a moment of panic, the technicalities of what he was trying to achieve almost overwhelming him, then Grantaire tilted his head upwards and Enjolras found he had no time to worry about the logistics of the act. He was kissing him, and kissing him and kissing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was sort of a fight scene but I cannot write action so I ended it as soon as possible via deus ex Jehan. He smokes a pipe at least 90% for the asthetic. I always forget that its the 1830's and smoking is socially acceptable.  
> Wow Grantaire is getting a lot better at articulating his anxities.  
> Marius is still a fog; Cosette however is no longer a vapour.  
> Cosette's new friends call her Euphraise. It's her fancy outside name but in her home she's still Cosette and she still thinks of herself as Cosette.  
> Enjolras tried his best and...succeeded?


	10. End of Part 1

“You kissed me” accused Grantaire, curling himself indignantly away. 

Enjolras looked at him earnestly, he was flushed and dark eyed, not meeting his eyes, and there was nothing scornful or resentful in his expression. 

“I love you.”

“Oh” said Grantaire, rather hollowly.

“I mean it” Enjolras insisted.

Grantaire scrutinised him carefully “I believe you” he said, quietly “Oh God."

“I thought you would be happy. Don't you love me as well?” demanded Enjolras.

“Oh God. You knew all along, that I-. You knew what I felt. Oh God” Grantaire ducked past Enjolras and retreated back to his chair where he sat hunched over, his head in his hands. 

Enjolras felt his stomach sink, weren't people supposed to be happy when they found their love requited? He should not have acted so rashly. He wiped at his lips and took a deep breath, Grantaire still curled away from him in distress.

“'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pressed the subject. I didn't want to make you feel- obliged to give me an answer” Grantaire didn't respond “I should leave.”

He want even at the door before Grantaire rushed to him, clumsy “No, Enjolras.” 

Grantaire met his eyes and started, Enjolras could only imagine that he looked as unmoored as he felt “Don't go. I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm just realising- your regard has meant so much to me for such a mortifyingly long time that it didn't occur to me that I could have any effect on you. You were brave, not that that is unusual, so I should return the favour” Enjolras let his hand be taken “It might take me a moment to gather my thoughts; I'm still reeling. You will laugh because it sounds like something from a play but I didn't realise I loved you until just now, when you told me that you were in love. I know, I know, that sounds like a lie. I couldn't admit it before now, not even when you confronted me with the fact of my love, not to you, not to myself. My love for you is grand and bigger than I will ever be, the person I was then would not have been able to bear the weight of it. I-” Grantaire narrowed his eyes “I said you would laugh; that doesn't give you licence to start grinning. I'm pouring my heart out here. Be serious.”

“You love me.” said Enjolras, triumphantly; tenderly “You love me so much you could scarcely admit it to yourself. Say it plainly?”

“I love you” a pause, they stood together immersed in the atmosphere those words sparked, then Grantaire said again, in that same tone of startled injury “You kissed me!”

“I thought it would be the easiest way to make my feeling clear. Did you mind?”

“I didn't know you had it in you" He paused thoughtfully "I could live with a repeat of the experience.”

Enjolras resumed, with enthusiasm. The second kiss was better than the first by virtue of experience. Soon, however, Enjolras began to feel the strain of their unequal heights. He disengaged with about as much grace as could be expected from a novice, and looked down at Grantaire who whined in protest. Stretching up, Grantaire reached his jaw and pressed another kiss to it.

“You have stubble” he exclaimed. 

Enjolras tilted his head “Yes?” he said cautiously.

Grantaire reached up and traced the line of Enjolras' jaw with his fingertips. The sensation sparked shivers down Enjolras' spine.

“I didn't think you had to shave.”

I didn't need to until a few years ago. I brought my first razor in Paris; Combeferre had to teach me how not to cut myself.”

“I think I remember now.” Grantaire smiled “I thought it was because you were always in a hurry.”

“That too” Enjolras admitted. 

“I used to imagine that I might one day be taken into your confidence, my delusions bordered on the sensational but none were so lurid as reality. Although this is a different role than I had anticipated, Mistress rather than Comrade.”

“Lover” corrected Enjolras firmly “and Comrade. One does not preclude the other.”

“So now you're saddling me with two jobs.”

“I'm an job now?” Enjolras arched a brow.

Grantaire affected a look of innocence “Every man must have his occupation- and you are very occupying.”

Enjolras, who guarded himself against those worldly vices which lead men to evil in pursuit of riches and acclaim, found himself rather susceptible to this form of flattery.

“So you have fallen in love with Grantaire. You have wooed him. Grantaire allowed himself to be wooed. You plan to continue this for the foreseeable future.” Combeferre looked at Enjolras over a half annotated surgery transcript. Enjolras nodded, his posture ramrod straight, like a son waiting on his fathers blessing.

This was not exactly a surprise to Combeferre. Enjolras' friendship with Grantaire had been in flux for some time; he would make excuses aloud as to why spending time with Grantaire was necessary with the air of a man justifying his indulgences to himself. As for Grantaire; it had been clear to Combeferre, since Coufeyrac had pointed it out, that he loved Enjolras. This didn't bother Combeferre; loving someone entirely opposed to romantic love was exactly the sort of thing he expected from a man as capricious as Grantaire, besides Enjolras had told him that they had come to some sort of an agreement over the issue. Whatever the particulars of that agreement, it seemed to have effected startling change in Grantaire who had, over the past year or so, seemed to grow out of his maudlin spiels and excessive drinking. A relief; not least because the amount Grantaire used to imbibe bordered on self-flagellation. Combeferre had seen a dissection of a dipsomaniac's liver; fascinating, but not something he liked to imagine inside one of his friends. It hurt, though, that these deductions had been necessary, that Enjolras hadn't confided in him.

“That's correct.”

“And you're happy?”

“I know things won't always be easy” Enjolras smiled “but I want us to build a life together.”

“So you plan to be open about it” Combeferre leaned back in his chair.

I don't know. I'll have to talk to R about it, but I don't think I can lie.”

“That might close doors for you.”

“Or I might open doors for people like me” then, quietly “I wish he would press his suit.”

Combeferre froze “Pardon?”

“Grantaire. That is we have been alone numerous times since we confessed to each other. There has been ample opportunity but everything has been very chaste. I had assumed given how he talks that he would... make advances.”

“Perhaps he is trying to respect your wishes?” What would Coufeyrac say? “perhaps you should be the one making advances.”

“I don't want to appear too forward or” Enjolras made a face “wanton.”

Combeferre saw the chance to retreat to the safety of biology “There is nothing wrong with wanting physical intimacy, it's perfectly natural.”

“I think it feels too good to be natural” Enjolras admitted, red-faced.

“Enjolras, frankly, I think you would do better to seek someone else's advice. My expertise is limited; I have never struggled with those urges or felt the lack of them.”

“Maybe you are just a better man than I.”

“No” said Combeferre, injecting as much severity into his voice as possible “I am not the better man for the lack of such feelings, just different and in honesty, Enjolras, I resent the implication. My lack of interest in any partner is not a reflection on my character, any more than your desire for one is a reflection on yours.” there was still a tightness to Enjolras' jaw; he did not look altogether convinced. Combeferre changed tactics “Do you think the worse of Grantaire for desiring you?”

“Never” exclaimed Enjolras vehemently. 

Combeferre bit back a smile; Enjolras was just as stalwart in love as he was in friendship. A beat then Combeferre saw Enjolras accept his point with a wry nod. 

“You're right, of course. I want this, Combeferre, I want him but what if I can't. What if Grantaire only loves the Enjolras who is his friend, not the Enjolras who is his lover?” 

As much as it saddened him to see Enjolras unsure, he also felt relived. Enjolras was so often the rock that Combeferre clung to, always confident, always reassuring. That he could reciprocate was all that he wished for.

“Come here” Combeferre abandoned his work and embraced his best friend. They breathed together for some time, until Combeferre felt that he had expressed all the love and care he felt “Grantaire is the most cynical person I know; he sees your faults. He has mocked your faults, we have all heard him. And if he has illusions about you Enjolras, do you think Grantaire of all people would judge you for being flawed?”

“I would like to be strong for him” Enjolras admitted to Combeferre's shoulder.

“You want to be strong for everyone. If Grantaire loves you as much as I do then he will want nothing more than to share your burdens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of part 1 and is as such a bit weird and pretty short but i never claimed to be good at pacing..  
> Combeferre's conversation with Enjolras had a lot cut from it to make it seem vagely like a conversation two actual human beings would have.  
> ft. both Enjolras and Grantaire having slightly weird but understandable hangups about love and sex  
> From here on in actual plot? wow. One day I might actually update the summary as its really only acurate for the first couple of chapters


	11. Chapter 11

Enjolras wiped himself down briskly. The cold water set him shivering, shaking off the final dregs of sleep. In the dim light of the late January morning, he peered at his reflection. There, just above his collarbone bloomed a purplish bruise; Enjolras tapped it lightly and smiled at the sting. 

The culprit slept on behind him, curled into the patch of warmth Enjolras had left, utterly unrepentant. One foot had escaped from the bed and hung off the side of the mattress, even as Grantaire pulled the sheets tighter around him in his sleep. The night before Enjolras had hung his clothes over the footboard, and now he redressed quickly shirt sticking to his still damp skin, shaking the creases out of his trousers.

“Leaving in the night? Have you ceased cherishing me so soon?” Grantaire watched him lazily from the bed, still not fully awake. Enjolras finished shrugging on his waistcoat, then crossed to kiss him. 

“I must attend to my other lover.”

“How will I ever live with the shame of you abandoning me in the dead of night to chase after your Patria.” he reached up and began fastening Enjolras' waistcoat.

“I thought you shameless.”

“For all the good it's done me; a few nights spent in your unfaithful arms and my honour is ruined. I'll never be able to get married now.”

Enjolras lent down and kissed him again “Good.”

It was enough to make him want to fall back into bed again, and R was being extremely unhelpful, hands tangling in his hair, nipping at his lower lip.

The fact of their relationship reached all their friends without any effort on their part. Some astonishment was expressed. Grantaire pretended disappointment that his friends were so slow on the uptake and within a week all their friends were claiming that they had seen it coming from miles away, even Bahorel who had first taken the news under the assumption that it was a strange new running joke. Enjolras was grateful that it had been accepted so quickly, he hadn't thought that anyone would find fault with the nature of their relationship but it was still a relief. He could withstand any amount of scorn from those whose opinions he didn't respect but it would have been difficult to withstand disparagement from his friends.

Enjolras pushed Grantaire away firmly “I have to go.”

“Still after that Flintlock then?” asked Grantaire, playing with his own hair in lieu of Enjolras'.

“Rifle” Enjolras clarified “and I don't know that its still for sale.”

Their opponent had all the time and money needed to equip themselves but for Enjolras and his friends and their allies it was a constant struggle to find resources. Guns, shot, powder; they kept alert as to opportunities for their procurement. Another advantage any conventional force has is that they know precisely how many men they must arm, Enjolras felt the urgency of providing arms for an unknown number of men.

“It was Bossuet's lead if I recall? Lets hope you can counteract his Jinx” Grantaire smiled and sat up again. He combed Enjolras' hair with his fingers, eyes narrowed, Enjolras submitted to his lover's aesthetic sensibilities “Beautiful. I would find you sickening if we were rivals, I would go mad from jealousy. Despair would be my only friend for there is no wit in the world sharp enough to best the slant of your cheekbones. No one could compare.”

Enjolras felt himself blush; R always exaggerated “So I don't have to fear any rivals for your hand.”

“Allow me to first suspend my disbelief that someone, casting a glance betwixt us, would choose me to lust over. If they disregard your charms they are foolish and I don't care for fools, being too much of one myself. And even if there was someone as beautiful as you to be found, which I think unlikely but there are more things in your philosophy ect.ect, they would not have your quick mind nor your kind heart or your irresistible sense of patriotism. I could not be swayed from you by anyone less than everything you are. Satisfied?”

Enjolras was, immeasurably. He didn't often have time to spend with Grantaire as lovers should, sometimes he pictured him with someone who had the time for all the frivolities that Grantaire enjoyed.

R flopped back down on the bed, face screwed up in thought “Unless their cock is bigger than yours in which case all bets are off.”

When the sun had fully risen, Grantaire set out himself. He tried not to think about where Enjolras was or what he was doing; nothing good came out of worrying himself and Enjolras had faced far greater dangers unscathed. The worst he could encounter would be a few poxy police spies and Enjolras was more than their match.

He was sure now, as sure as he could be, that when the day came he would not falter, that he would stand with his friends, but he was not sure that he could hold a gun and shoot some other man down. Grantaire was aware of his own hypocrisy in this, he felt comforted when Enjolras went out to barter for some old flintlock or when a collection when round to gather funds for shot; he liked to know there was another bullet between his friends and death, another odd weighed against the National guard. He would rather have his friends live even with blood on their hands but would not bloody his own hands towards that goal? There were other roles to be fulfilled in the chaos of the barricades for all that he had drunk through previous bouts, Grantaire knew this, there were ways that he could aid his friends without taking up arms. He knew this and was still afraid. That they would fail; that he would fail them. His fear cut deeper, now that he had ceased dulling his pain with drink, and for all that Grantaire despaired of it, he was becoming accustomed to it all the same. Instead of cowering away from his fears and letting them grow in the dark corners of his mind, he greeted them with cool familiarity and pushed past them, as if they were an old, irritating acquaintance he had met in the street. His fears were demons no longer; he did not afford them that respect.

Enjolras wanted him; Grantaire marvelled at that and it gave him courage. The dream of complete political and societal change seemed reasonable compared to the ludicrous reality of Enjolras leaning down and whispering words of love in his ear.  
It might not last, Enjolras had joked only that morning about infidelity in their little arrangement but Grantaire knew that he would be the last to stray. He was playing the Courtesan with all the constraints of a Wife. 

Not that Enjolras would ever be unfaithful but if he ever grew bored of Grantaire or found someone more to his liking, then he would waste no time in making his position clear. Enjolras would be kind no doubt, kind to the point of cruelty and Grantaire would be terrible about it of course, bitter and resentful, he would spit angry words and make Enjolras hate the idea of even remaining his friend. It occurred to Grantaire that he would rather die, which seemed like the kind of thought he shouldn't be having.

He was trying to keep himself busy, as he always did when Enjolras was off doing something that could potentially get him arrested without him. To that end, he had decided to pay a visit to Pontmercy to deliver Cosette's latest letter. Though they had not yet met, and despite all of Cosette's demurring on the subject, Grantaire suspected the courtship was becoming more serious. He knew this because Cosette had started to dab her letters with scent. Such harlotry in a convent raised child. 

There was only one problem concerning this courtship; that was Fauchelevent, or rather, Fauchelevent's ignorance of the whole affair. Grantaire couldn't imagine how Fauchelevent would respond to the news; he had never seen him lose his temper, never even heard him raise his voice. But he could hardly conceive of a positive reaction either; Fauchelevent had been reticent towards change for as long as he had known him.

Cosette had a growing circle of friends but to Grantaire's knowledge he alone was welcomed into their home and he got the impression that he had only won this privilege through happenstance. Fauchelevent allowed Cosette to socialise as she wished but would not chaperone her in any public places himself, and despite all of Cosette's best efforts she lamented to Grantaire that her Father was becoming ever more withdrawn. Grantaire did feel compelled to point out that none of her best efforts actually involved confronting her Father on the matter. Cosette was adamant that he did not understand; perhaps he didn't, it wasn't like he had ever tried talking out his problems with his own Father. Regardless, that conversation would have to be had eventually, for Cosette seemed set on Pontmercy and if they were to be married, God wasn't that a thought, they would have to tell Fauchelevent at some point, unless they hoped to kidnap him to the church on their wedding day.

He whistled as he walked, making good time. The tune was high and piping, his best effort to mimic a pretty little soprano piece, he hadn't intended for it to aggravate passer bys but the dark stares it prompted only encouraged him; there would always be a part of Grantaire that delighted a little at needling others. 

His pace kept him warm even with the chill of the air, and he was in reasonably high spirits by the time he arrived at Pontmercy's residence. He had never been there before, but a good memory for directions served him well, and he was confident that he had found the right place. He was told that the building had room enough for dozens of tenants, though it didn't appear that way from the front, just a window and a door visible from the street. 

And slouched up against that door was a young woman.

She was ragged and scrawny, with a coiled posture that spoke of a life plagued by all the insecurities which define poverty. From a distance she had seemed almost middle aged but up close Grantaire saw that her wrinkles were brutal things carved by adversity rather than time. It was a shame, he thought, because she might have been pretty if she were a little less worn and then, perhaps because he had been spending more time about Combeferre who spoke about such things, he thought it was a shame that it mattered. If she could learn a trade, as Feuilly had done, it wouldn't matter what she looked like. Her feet were bare. The causal manner in which she leant against the door frame bespoke of ownership; a Tennant Grantaire thought, although the fact that she preferred the bite of late winter to her lodgings spoke volumes as to the quality of the shelter it provided. Surely Pontmercy wasn't still so hard up that this was all that he could afford, Grantaire knew that he did little scraps of translation. Although, it was Pontmercy, who was hardly likely to look past whatever grave thoughts he was having to see he that was living in a Cemetery.

This reminded Grantaire of Enjolras, who was still living in the same lodgings that he had held since arriving in Paris. He smiled, hopelessly fond, he had changed his lodgings four times before he found somewhere that suited him perfectly, the first time on account of the food, the second on the price, the third time admittedly not by his own choice, and the fourth shortly after he had become involved with Les Amis de L'ABC on account of the unacceptable distance between his old lodgings and the Musain. Enjolras was not so frivolous and only cared that his rooms were clean and quiet, and more recently, that Grantaire was in them. 

Enjolras' rooms might not be the most comfortable in Paris, thought Grantaire, but they are among his favourites. Since childhood he had never understood what people meant when they said that Churches were a place of comfort or reverence. Grantaire's most constant impression of Church, carried over from memories of his earliest childhood, was of a place that was either too hot or too cold, where you were forced to wear your itchiest, stiffest clothes and sit in intolerable stillness and silence while the man at the front spoke about things that were too boring to listen too and Grantaires thoughts would swirl up into a dark storm cloud above his head. Enjolras' rooms were what churches should be like; the quietness was soothing but Grantaire knew that he would not be censured for breaking it, which was fortunate for he did so with impunity. Even more than that there was a sense that this was a place where great works were coming to fruition. Of course no Church would stand for the form of worship they practised most frequently although, Grantaire mused, perhaps it would help with attendance if more churches relaxed there standards on that front.

The girl noticed him and Grantaire grinned at her. Her eyes narrowed; despite her frailty she resembled a lounging tiger. It would not be against her nature to pounce; to rip; to tear. He met her eyes, tipped his hat, and greeted her with such courtesy that it tipped into insolence. She nodded back at him, stony, still leaning against the door.

“Is this the Gorbeau house?” asked Grantaire, because the silence was unbearable.

“You've got business here?” She looked at him again “Not one of my Father's friends; they wouldn't need to ask. And I don't know that-” her whole aspect brightened and she faltered towards him, her dull eyes brightening “Is it that you know Monsuier Marius? You are one of his friends, Monsieur?” the tiger had dropped away and her speech became markedly more ingratiating. 

Oh Pontmercy, Grantaire thought, another young lover steps out onto the stage. “Yes. I have a letter for him”

"I've never met his any of his friends before.”

Grantaire risked a step closer “Aren't you his friend?”

“I know him a little. We pass each other in the hall, sometimes” she stepped forward “I could deliver the letter for you.”

Grantaire shook his head. He had seen enough bad plays to know that the love rival was the one person you shouldn't entrust with a love letter. “It's a personal matter I'm afraid.”

“I'll show you the way up then” she said eagerly “It a maze this place.”

Grantaire looked at the worn down tenement then its equally bedraggled inhabitant and shrugged “Lead on.”

He pressed a coin on her, for her service which further endeared him, and, brushing down her ragged petticoat with a gesture of defiant elegance, she led him inside.  
If Enjolras' lodgings were a place of worship, then the Gorbeau House had been abandoned even by heathen gods. Perhaps that was an exaggeration, Grantaire had seen worse. Had seen people without even a roof over their heads. Still, it was a dismal place. The girl had described the house as a maze which could only be true if you were really bad at mazes. She led him up a rickety flight of stairs. A crash came from one of the rooms as they passed, the girl barely flinched and marched down the hall to knock on the furthest door. A pause, then the door creaked open and Pontmercy's head appeared. He blinked at the girl, owlish, dim recognition lighting in his dark eyes.

“Good Morning?”

“Hello, Monsieur, I was just helping you friend find his way up” the girl breathed to Pontmery.

Grantaire gave him a little wave. 

“Oh. Thank you Miss-”

“Eponine” Grantaire couldn't see her face but he could hear the smile in her cracked voice. In another life he might have laughed at how hopeless her feelings were, even in this life he was tempted, but he had to admit that if Enjolras could grow to love even him, than any miracle was possible. Not that this Eponine could ever compete with Cosette; on this point Grantaire was hopelessly prejudiced.

She continued “I'm always around, though we haven't had a chance to talk. You can call on me to do you any favour you like. I could even deliver your letters, if your friends tire of it.”

Pontmercy smiled at her thinly and thanked her again. This thanks was a kind dismissal. A nod to Grantaire, one last heartfelt look at Pontmercy and the girl dissapeared down the hall. 

“Grantaire. You didn't say that you were coming?”

“I have another letter for you so I came on a whim” He clapped Pontmercy on the shoulder “Are you afraid I'll tell Cosette what a sty you're living in.”

“No” denied Pontmercy, blushing violently. He looked around his humble lodgings anxiously, and jolted towards his desk where he rearranged the papers there more neatly. He needn't have bothered; his quarters were almost unnaturally clean.

“Don't worry” said Grantaire “I won't tell her about your den of inequity. Your torrid volumes of “ He squinted at the stack of books on the desk “The Principles of Constitutional Law, Books I-III will remain a secret.”

“The letter. If you would?” Pontmercy could be very boring sometimes; always retreating into politeness. Grantaire couldn't believe that Cosette might someday be obliged to sleep with him. The letter was delivered and promptly secreted away.

“Thank you” Pontmercy shuffled his feet and opened another book that was on his desk, he took a slip of folded paper from between it leaves.

“Here, I would like you to give this to Miss Fauchelevent” Pontmercy unfolded the paper to reveal a pressed flower.

Grantaire made a show of admiring it. It was certainly enterprising to kill the flowers before gifting them, and the petals had held their vibrancy well “What gave you the idea?”

Pontmercy turned an even darker shade of red “I wanted to give Miss Fauchelevent flowers. Monsieur Mabeuf suggested that this might be more discreet.”

“Mabeuf?” questioned Grantaire idly.

“He is a close friend” said Pontmercy “ A good man who I came to know shortly after the death of my Father. He knew my Father, being the custodian of the Church we attended, and helped me piece together much of his past. He lives nearby and is a gifted Gardener, he's written books on the subject, with a very fine garden. He let me have the pick of his flowers. It was very kind of him; he treasures his garden very much.”

Grantaire did not linger after that, there was a look in Pontmercy's eye that suggested he was about to start elaborate on the subject. 

Cosette was not at home so Fauchelevent received him. It had been some time since they had met each other alone, and without Cosette filling up the silences Grantaire finally understood the terrible change that had overcome Fauchelevent over the past months. He was quieter than usual with a very distracted air, his eyes snapping to the door at any distant clatter from the street. One of Grantaire's most reliable talents was being provoking but Fauchelevent would not be drawn out. He could not even be persuaded to speak on on the subject of Cosette. 

It had been some time since Grantaire had monopolised a conversation so thoroughly. 

After a minute of excruciating small talk which was like squeezing blood from a stone, Grantaire felt that he was being the most insufferable bore ever to wander the earth, pray God for a drink, a glass in hand he was Ciciero, Master of Oration. But Fauchelevent didn't need a Ciciero, he needed a friend and that friend would be Grantaire, God help the old man. Grantaire talked of poetry, the theatre, he expounded of the philosophy of the habitual coffee drinker and invented some opinions about the state of the roads. 

An hour was passed in this fashion. Fauchelevent coughed “I don't want to keep you here. I'm sure you have better things to be doing.”

“Not a bit of it!” said Grantaire.

Silence descended.

“There's no rush to leave. After all we have so much to talk about” Fauchelevent said, rather sarcastically, thought Grantaire.

He lent back in his chair and shrugged, perhaps he had been a bit heavy handed in trying to get him to open up. There was nothing worse, after all, then feeling miserable and having some bastard come along trying to enliven you.

He waited a moment on the off chance that the silence would inspire Fauchelevent to speech. It did not. “Perhaps I should be off, my Friend went off to buy a gun this morning. He should be back by now.”

“A gun?” 

Grantaire coughed, it was easy to forget that Fauchelevent did not necessarily share his sympathies “He hunts.” Royalists, Grantaire added silently.

Fauchelevent nodded, then with shy wistfulness said “I used to shoot when I was younger.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It was necessary, not a matter of enjoyment. I liked how easily it came to me” Fauchelevent shook his head, a bear coming out of hibernation “I've been dwelling on the past it seems, as of late.”

This was the most he had said all morning “Something troubling you?”

“Did Cosette tell you to ask me that?” Fauchelevent smiled distantly at him.

Grantaire hesitated, delicacy was required “She's worried about you.”

Fauchelevent closed his eyes “She's too good for me” her whispered tenderly.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, he was beginning to understand how irritating all of his self-flagellation must have been for his friends. 

“She has found a good place for herself here in Paris. I'm proud of her, it might not seem like it now but there was... much for her to overcome. She is so very young and the world is often... not kind to young women” Fauchelevent hesitated, then continued, looking straight at Grantaire “I know you are fond of her.”

“As fond as any Brother” interjected Grantaire hastily.

“I would like to know that you would be there for her” Grantaire watched as Fauchelevent's strong shoulders sank “It is likely that soon I will be unable to be a Father to her.”

Grantaire gave an affirmation too shocked to do otherwise, inwardly baffled at the faith Fauchelevent had in him. For a moment he was more concerned than he had ever been but that concern swiftly melted away as all the facts pointed to one natural conclusion. He had discovered the root of Fauchelevent's troubles.

So that was it! Fauchelevent wasn't afraid that Cosette was going to leave him, rather he was to leave Cosette. Grantaire looked him up and down, frail wasn't the word he would use to describe him. If Fauchelevent knocked at death's door, Death would pretend to be out on a business call. Really that was the problem with old people; they saw all the people younger them living out their lives and assumed that their lives were over. 

Well that was nonsense, what Fauchelevent really needed was to get out and make some friends. But old men, like young men would cleave to their own. Not just any geriatric would do; they would have to have common interests. What did Fauchelevent like? Gardening; Cosette had told him that was the job he had taken to be near her in the convent, he liked his books and took the church very seriously. He liked helping people. Grantaire frowned, Paris was not renowned for its excess of elderly reclusive gardening enthusiasts. He shifted in his seat and in his pocket the paper slip containing Pontmercy's pressed flower crinkled. The crisp sound of that paper crumpling was the thunder to Grantaire's lightning bolt of inspiration.

All at once he had a rather brilliant idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the introduction of Eponine! 
> 
> I know nothing about gun laws in 18th century france nor could i find anything on it. I'm assuming people could buy guns for sport/hunting but not otherwise? I'm scaping my knowledge of what goes into arming a revolution from that one chaper shortly before "Enjolras and his lieutenants" and my own baseless conjuncture.
> 
> E&R having the similar insecurities was something that i liked because they are quite different people its natural that they would both worry about not being enought for each other in different ways? I think? god i dont know how do people even think? ive spent too long overthinking this chapter and it shows
> 
> Move over young people angst we have OLD PEOPLE ANGST. Valjean is in such a different place here than he is in canon. Cosette has her own life and friends, emotionally he's almost in the same place as he's in at the end of the book. And he's deffo thinking similar thoughts ie. I must remove myself from Cosette's life lest my shame fall upon her. Grantaire totally misunderstands but honestly would u guess valjeans backstory?
> 
> Ft. Grantaires kinda fucked idea of gender roles and how that applys to him and Enjolras


	12. Chapter 12

Grantaire's plan was a play of three parts and like many of the more entertaining plays that he had enjoyed, it involved a pair of young lovers, and a few layers of sweet harmless deception. A light comedy. Cosette was as charming as any young ingenue, Fauchelevent as benevolent and kindly as any well intentioned but obstructive Father-in-Law on the stage and Pontmercy could very reliably be called upon to stand there and look handsome. 

The plan had been agreed upon by all parties, Grantaire had put across the idea to Cosette with an air of casual spontaneity as if he hadn't spent the last day and a half thinking out it's particulars. She had responded in the positive with a determined twist of her lips and an extensive reworking of his plan.

Act one took place in Fauchelevent's dining room, Grantaire abandoned his friends to dine, as he did every so often, with the Fauchelevents. They had settled into the second course when Cosette and Grantaire put the first part of their plan into motion.

“I would like” declared Cosette, tapping her fork against her lower lip “to try growing an orchid.”

Fauchelevent stopped rearranging his potatoes on his plate “An orchid?” He set his cutlery down, the lines around his mouth deepening.”I don't know very much about them, it might be difficult to grow and I would have no good advice for you.”

“That's what makes it interesting Papa” Cosette frowned “Some advice might be nice though. Perhaps- there are books on everything.”

Grantaire lent back in his chair and drawled “I might know someone.”

“Who?”

“I can't remember his name, M- something? Mabeuf! That's it. Have I told you about Pontmercy, my lawyer friend?”

“You know too many lawyers” Cosette replied dismissively, her face a mask. You would not have divined from her placid expression the jolt the name Pontmercy gave her. 

“Well this Lawyer can help you. He is friends with an old man, a savant when it comes to plants.”

She turned to her father again. “What do you think Papa?”

“This Mabeuf knows about orchids?”

“I don't know about that, believe it or not I didn't dedicate my full attention to this invigorating topic, but ” and here Grantaire scrunched his face up, pausing, a theatrical touch he took pride in “I think he has published books on the fauna and flora of somewhere or other, so he must have some sort of expertise ” this statement, Grantaire reflected, wasn't strictly true and he could not help but clarify “excepting the possibility that he's just a charlatan with an enchanting turn of phrase.”

“I doubt” said Cosette, with a hint of steel in her tone “That you friend would keep acquaintance with someone dishonest.”

“Of course not. Pontmercy is the very personification of uprightness” Grantaire confided to Fauchelevent.

“There are easier plants to raise” said Fauchelevent “We could go out tomorrow morning to Le Marché aux Fleurs and pick something together. A rosebush looks very pretty and you could train it to grow up around the gate.”

“I do like roses but I see them all the time. I've only seen orchid's in print. Trying to grow something new won't hurt will it?” Cosette cast her eyes anxiously towards her father, “If its not too much trouble.”

“You know I would not begrudge you this.”

“I'll ask Pontmercy if he might see his way to introducing you to Mabeuf, then.”

Fauchelevent hesitated “I don't know yet that his advice will be necessary.”

“My motives aren't altogether pure” Grantaire smiled apologetically “My friend Pontmercy has looked put upon lately and from what little he has told me it is because he fears for his friend. Without being told in so many words I have garnered the impression that this sorry old man borders on destitution. You might well be his saviour if you offer him payment for his advice.”

This was the irresistible bait that Cosette and Grantaire had decided on together, between an innocent in peril and his darling Cosette wanting for something, Fauchelevent would not refuse them. 

“Very well.”

“Really Papa?”

“Of course, if we can prevail upon you to arrange an introduction, Grantaire”

“I am at your service.”

Cosette and Grantaire restrained their triumphant smiles and immediately changed the subject as if nothing significant had been decided. Grantaire was satisfied; his plan was set in motion and nothing could go wrong. Unless Pontmercy forgot himself and declaimed his love for Cosette instantly upon seeing her, or the two old men took an instant and vicious dislike to each other or if the red tide of the revolution rose up and swept them all away before the curtain could fall on the whole pretty scheme.

Grantaire's relative optimism was not misplaced; even Enjolras, who couldn't understand why such a duplicitous approach was necessary approved, although Grantaire suspected that this approval was won by affection rather than his lovers full confidence in the schemes success. Enjolras himself would not have confirmed this suspicion for all the world even if it had been true. They were stood together in the street waiting on Combeferre. He was late, no doubt having caught up one of his Professors with some question or other. 

Enjolras however was content to wait; waiting for Enjolras rarely devolved into boredom. There were always some thoughts to occupy himself with, some issue to be examined. This introspection spanned some minutes and presently it occurred to him that Grantaire, who could just as easily be in the warm playing at billiards, felt boredom quiet keenly.

“How goes your Drama” he said, in reference to Grantaire's convoluted efforts to get Fauchelevent to approve of Pontmercy.

Grantaire who had been entertaining himself by blowing plumes of smoke into the cold air, looked up at him. His nose was bitten red by the cold.

“The Heart-warming Affair of Miss Fauchelevent and her Demon Lover? My part will be over by tomorrow. All that's left is to introduce Pontmercy to them and for Cosette to ensure that her Father and Mabeuf meet regularly enough to form a friendship. Fauchelevent lonely no more will no longer fear his daughters absence and she can explain to him her desire for wedded life.”

Enjolras nodded and linked their arms together “Grantaire” said he “That is excessively convoluted and I say that as a student of politics.”

Preening Grantaire huddled closer to him“Thank you! I owe it all to the complete lack of good sense that all my friends share and my incorrigibly whimsical nature. Yes, I acknowledge I had help but the greatest part of the credit should be mine. You know I have been squabbling with Coufeyrac over who our lovebirds should first honour as a namesake for their child but I feel with this I have won their favour and my prize; my one chance of being immortalised.”

A thought occurred and Enjolras smiled “You need not rely on Miss Fauchelevent for you chance at immortalisation.”

“What do you mean” Grantaire's eyes lit up with mischief “You're not going to write a poem about me?”

“I was thinking of a collaborative project.” 

Grantaire arched a brow; Enjolras elaborated “There is nothing to stop us from raising our own child – even if we could not reasonably birth one.” 

Grantaire barked out a laugh “I'd have to wonder at the sense of whoever would trust us with a child, besides I didn't think you even liked them. God knows I wouldn't wish myself on one.”

Enjolras smiled weakly, suddenly he was feeling the cold. They had been intimate for scarcely six-months and had spoken little of what their life together might look like in the future. In part this was because Enjolras could not account for what their world might look like; he saw clearly the action of the revolution, knew what it must be and how it could be achieved, the aftermath, however, was obscure to him. He did not yet know that he would survive to see it. So specifics of his future were not known to him, he knew, however, the broad strokes of his own wishes. 

A home that belonged to them both, employment that he could take pride in, his friends near in sprit if not in fact. A place where he help start building on the slice of liberty they would win, a place where Grantaire could feel strong enough to pursue dreams of his own. And, perhaps, a child. It had not occurred to him until that absent half formed thought left his mouth that he might want one. Someone who could take all that they had built into the future, someone built from their love. 

“I like children” he protested “ I had thought that you did too.”

The smile slid off Grantaire's face “You are serious?”

“I had not imagined that it would occur imminently” There was a flush to his cheeks unrelated to the cold.

“Of course you are serious” Grantaire stretched up to kiss his cheek, Enjolras flinched away.

“It was only a thought” he would not be patronised.

Perhaps Grantaire sensed his antagonism for his took a step backwards “I like children” he said quietly “its just I-”

“I understand” Enjolras softened. He wasn't about to force Grantaire into wanting the same things as him and though he didn't need Grantaire to ply him with platitudes every time they disagreed, it was unfair to blame him for trying to soften the blow. He kissed the top his head.

“Thank you” Grantaire was smiling again, softly, privately. 

“Your perfect plan” Enjolras reminded him after a moment.

“Ah, yes, I've accounted for everything. Pontmercy is ready to introduce Fauchelvent to Mabeuf. I even asked Coufeyrac find him an honest looking suit, Pontmercy won't take that sort of thing from me. I have seen the extent of his wardrobe; there was nothing suitable, he's either a Pauper or a Mourner” Grantaire explained darkly “if he appears clad in his dusty old coat with ink-blots on the sleeves Fauchelevent will feel compelled to offer him charity; pity is not the chief emotion which should arise in the breast of a potential Father-in-Law it ripens into scorn in an instant when their daughter is concerned. Worse, he might appear clad in his smart black suit, for sure he would appear fit for either a Wedding or a Funeral, but the former is premature and the latter is a unquestionable threat. Cosette will see an Adonis whether he is garbed in rags or silk but Fauchelevent will not be looking through the eyes of love. No, Pontmercy lacks the gift of imbuing poverty with grace. It works well enough for Bossuet who wear the impenetrable virtues of Goodness and Cheer in place of acceptable dress or Feuilly who spends nothing and has nothing to spend but is neater than a pin. Bossuet's knee glimpsed through a hole in his breeches appears noble and sprightly but Pontmercy's knee's is less heroic; he is embarrassed by them and so becomes an embarrassment.”

“There's a metaphor in that” said Enjolras thoughtfully.

“Hm?”

“Being embarrassed about holes in you breeches. Something along the lines of the hole being the proportion of profit to income and the embarrassment the difference between how the working class and the bourgeois value labour.”

Grantaire nodded “There is something universally sympathetic about clothing, it might work if you find a good segue into it; you cant just spring breeches onto people unannounced. Ah! Just in time, Combeferre!” Their friend was making his way towards them, with what Enjolras optimistically assumed was ink staining his fingertips.

“Combeferre we need you to tell us how to make people accept unsolicited breeches.”

Combeferre frowned “What are they made of?”

“Metaphors” said Enjolras

“Will you offer me some context as to the substance of this metaphor or do you expect me to supply my own?”

“That depends do you have any intimidate ideas?”

“Well-” They walked off together, three abreast.

The next day Cosette and her Papa strolled towards the church of Saint-Jacques du Haut Pas where they had arranged to meet Grantaire and Marius, for no other reason than this was their regular place of worship. It had been her idea to entrench her father in familiarity before plunging him into uncharted waters. As they turned onto the Rue de l'Abbé de l'Épée Cosette felt her Papa falter for a moment, she clutched his arm tighter, these moments of frailty were becoming more regular. Perhaps they should have hired a carriage.

Outside the church two men stood waiting. Both were known to Cosette. One was of rather middling height with a face that was easy to be unkind about, the other was tall and well proportioned. It had been a long time since she had seen the second young man's face and he was as handsome as she remembered. Cosette smoothed down the front of her coat; he had not yet spotted her. Grantaire, for that was the identity of the shorter man, spotted them first. 

He sauntered towards them, waving boisterously, and shouted “Monsieur Fauchelevent!”

Cosette could have hit him; there was nothing that made her Papa more uncomfortable than attention being drawn to him.

“Grantaire” her father was smiling; Cosette relaxed. “If you want God to hear you, you only need set foot in church.”

“Regrettably Monsieur I value our relationship too much to ever set foot in a church again after all what would you do if you were no longer obliged to save my soul?” 

“I wonder”

Marius caught up with Grantaire and Grantaire wasted no time with introductions. Cosette was not to know this but Marius had very nearly rejected the plan. He was not well suited to this delicate kind of conspiracy; he spoke his mind and, for the most part, expected others to do the same but the allure of finally speaking to his beloved in person had won out.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you “ Marius said intensely. 

If Cosette's Papa noted the direct and singular manner in which Marius had spoken those words, he did not show it. 

“Well I have made the introductions as promised” Grantaire said and bowed shallowly “Alas I can accompany you no further. I have been challenged to a duel; if I do not make the appointed time I risk being branded a coward”

None of them reacted; they were all, to one extent or another, desensitised to Grantaires' dramatics.

After a moment Cosette inquired “Cards or billiards.”

“Dominos” carolled Grantaire and made his exit leaving her alone with her Papa and Marius. 

Cosette glanced at her Father; he still appeared fatigued. “Perhaps Monsieur Pontmercy, if you have the time we might rest for a while in the Church.”

“Of course” said Marius, the angel “I am at your disposal.”

Her Father nodded “Thank you for sparing the time for us.”

They entered the church together and settled quietly on one of the back pews, Marius sat first, followed by her Father with Cosette nearest the aisle. It would have been too much to ask that her Father would allow her to sit next to an unknown young man. Selfish prayers had always been discouraged in the convent but now Cosette closed her eyes and prayed; that her Papa would find a friend, that he would be happier and that he would like Marius and approve of him for her. 

She was just wondering if she should pray for forgiveness for lying to her Father (after all lying wasn't a sin when you did it for a good reason) when the door clattered open the sound of footsteps echoed around the church. Cosette opened her eyes and saw a young women walking down the aisle. From the sound of her footsteps Cosette had expected a hulking man not a girl slighter than even herself. She was lithe and dressed in ragged clothes. Her hands, which she tapped across any surface she passed, were quick. The boots that the girl was wearing were a few sizes too large; when she took a step they rattled thunderously against the paving stones. Cosette watched the girl as made her way to talk to the Priest who pointed back towards her. The girl turned towards them and approached, when she was within arms reach she burst into speech.

“Monsuier, the Monsuier who gives Alms! Fauchelevent! Would you spare me a moment, Good Sir?”

Cosette's Papa startled, his eyes, too, had been closed but he had not noticed this girl make her entrance “Of course, what need do you have of me?”

But the girl did not answer him for her gaze had drifted down the pew and landed on Marius. To Cosette's surprise she exclaimed “Why Monsieur Marius its you!”

“Eponine?” 

“You remembered my name!”

Cosette's Papa coughed, other Parishioners were looking around at them “Would you like to continue this conversation outside, Mademoiselle?”

Eponine nodded jerkily and clumped towards the door, lifting her feet high as the ill fitting boots caught on the ground.

As Cosette stepped out into the weak sunlight her eye was caught by the sight of a most unusual man leaning against a building opposite the church, he was tall even hunched over as he was with a fierce looking wiry beard concealing most of his face. Despite being dressed little differently from many of the unfortunates who spends there days around Saint-Jacques du Haut Pas, he was entirely different from any other person on the street. It was his expression, Cosette decided, that disturbed her, it had not been a human expression. No joy or sadness, resignation or shock, no rage or kindness, just the single minded animal look of a predator that has found its prey. Then she blinked and the man blurred into the crowd. Cosette might have found him again for the street wasn't crowded and the man recognisable but she was distracted by the Eponine who had, upon gaining her Papa's full attention burst into speech again.

“What luck! I say to myself I must deliver a letter to a stranger and not knowing his address I must throw myself on the mercy of the Church but the mercies of the Church come with many conditions so I must borrow my Father's boots to enter the Church, not once just to deliver the letter but twice, nay, maybe even three times to confirm your answer. I say to myself I will be lucky to get a reply, yet here you are, Ah I am lucky today, God loves me indeed ” Her voice rang loud , bold, she made a vague gesture of a cross towards the church and laughed harshly “It must be the boots. Anyway this is for you.”

She handed a letter to Cosette's Father, who began to read it, then turned back to Marius and said “It is thanks to you, Monsuier and your five francs that we had paper to write this letter. I lost the first and almost caught hell for it but you saved me with that coin and brought me breakfast besides.”

Her movements were jerky and absent minded like a marionette controlled by a careless puppeteer, Cosette, when she should have been taking her Fathers distraction as an opportunity to look properly at Marius, could not tear her eyes away from her. Her eyes darted about as much as her hands, clever eyes that examined everything. Especially, Cosette noticed, they examined Marius.

“Very well” Papa had finished the letter “You can tell your Father that I have business today but that I will visit your home by tomorrow at the latest” he dug into his pockets and retrieved a handful of coins “Take this home with you.”

Eponine left, clutching with two hands her riches. Cosette could not help but stare after the girl, Eponine, Eponine; there was something familiar about that name, about that face, and her eyes... Part of her wished that Eponine would look back. She was aware, the same instinctive awareness that she had felt when she decided to encourage Marius' affections, that if she met those dark, extraordinary eyes again,something would change within her irrevocably. 

Cosette asked her Father what the letter had said, he replied “Her family is in distress and is seeking aid form all quarters.” then he turned to Marius and addressed him “How is it that you know that child?”

“I have lived in the same building as her Family for some years; they have struggled for as long as I have known them.”

“I see. Now that I am on my feet shall we be on our way?”

As Marius lead them towards Austerlitz and Mabeuf's residence, Cosette felt utterly distracted by the novelty of Marius' precence, yes, but also by the memory of the Strange Man and the even more mysterious Eponine.

Mabeuf pottered nervously before his bookcase. There was a pall hanging over them that he wasn't quite ready to acknowledge; his money had been wearing thin for so long that he was now wearing away at other peoples money being in debt to both his Housekeeper and Landlord. Sale of much of his furniture, the pawning of his copper plates and the banishment of meat from his table had not improved his situation. The threat, as much as his nature could acknowledge, of complete destitution loomed ever closer. 

Yet from the barren grounds of his troubles an unexpected sprig of hope had sprung; he had been told by Marius that he was to have visitors, visitors who might have employment for him. The word employment set Mabeuf's heart pounding he was not, as he had explained earnestly to Marius, equipped with personal experience of the more exotic flora. He knowledge was anecdotal and Marius' friends would be better off applying directly to the Horticultural society of which Mabeuf was a long-standing member. Marius was insistent however and Mabeuf capitulated in a daze of anxious delight. The prospect of honest work with ample remuneration seemed a dream; the prospect of losing this chance through his own incompetence, a nightmare. 

Time passed in a haze, twice Mabeuf removed books that he thought might be relevant from his bookcase, twice he replaced them. What would he say to these strangers who looked to him for aid? Distantly he heard a knock: Marius. Mabeuf froze where he stood, he heard Mother Plutarque move to answer the door and his hands went, involuntarily, to brush down his trousers. They were noticeably worn at the knees.

The door swung open and Mother Plutarque made her entrence followed by Marius, a Man some years his junior with an aureole of white hair and a young Girl. Marius, familiar and smiling, was a relief to Mabeuf who smiled at him and shook his hand. Mother Plutarque retreated immediently; the isolation of their lifestyle and their poverty had weakend her to the presence of strangers. Mabeuf did not blame her; the intrusion of the outside world into their home had left the both reeling.

“I have heard” Mabeuf announced, in his eagerness to resolve the matter as painlessly as possible “that you require an expert to help you with your garden. I am not an expert Monsuier, Mademoiselle. Monsuier Marius was kind enough assign me that title and it is true that I have made some small contributions to the field of Horticulture in the past but my knowledge of more exotic plants is lacking. I am afraid I cannot help you” The confession lifted some of the weight that had been resting on Mabeuf's shoulders, now if they somehow decided to employ him, they would at least be in full possession of the facts.

Silence settled over the party. Then the man stepped out from behind his daughter and proffered his hand to Mabeuf. Mabeuf looked down at the man's hand; short, clean nails and callouses. 

“My name is Ultime Fauchelevent and this is my daughter Euphraise Fauchelevent.” Mabeuf shook his hand tentatively “I'm pleased to meet you. It is unfortunate that you feel you cannot help us.”

Both the children looked stricken, Mabeuf sympathised with them. He had lost what little courage he had mustered.

“Monsuier Pontmercy has told us a little of your other work – I am told you have published a book and that you are currently working on naturalising Indigo in France.”

“Yes!” said Marius with the same valiant air that Mabeuf had seen from Marius' own Father “and before that he had great success with breeding a new variety of pear.”

Mabeuf blushed and demurred “A small success, and my efforts have since then been greately improved upon by others.”

“Still” said Fauchelevent kindly “I would like to hear more.”

"Of course, sit-" Mabeuf looked around and felt his hands grow clammy, it was that he had no more than a single chair to offer. He cast an anxious glance around the room, at the shabbiness of the few furnishings that remained, hoping that a solution would present itself. “...Perhaps you daughter should take the chair?”

Miss Fauchelevent hesitated then, after glanceing round at the three men in the room, smiled her agreement and sat prettily in the chair, the silk of her dress glowing against the shabby upholstery. Marius and Fauchelvent stood either side of her leaving Mabeuf to stand before them and declaim about the subject that had held his interest for decades. He even eventually brought out one of his last few copies of The Flora of Cauteretz which he settled on Miss Fauchelevent's lap.

“The illustrations are very beautiful” Miss Fauchelevent smiled at him brightly. He liked pretty girls in the same way as he loved his flowers; his first instinct was not to pluck, rather to nurture. Mabeuf returned her beam with a faltering smile of his own and patted the hands that held his book, once, then twice with fondness. It was refreshing to see his book again through her innocent appreciation.

“And your experiments with indigo?” Fauchelevent asked.

Mabeuf explained his lack of progress with a heavy heart, explained too that he could no longer afford to continue experimenting. At this point he had almost forgotten why they had come in the first place.

Fauchelevent nodded “Perhaps your experiments need not be over.” 

“Pardon?”

“I am fortunate in my position that I have often been able to sponsor project which have caught my interest and I find the prospect of naturalising Indigo in France intreging” he placed a hand on his daughters shoulder “Tell me Cosette, how would you feel about one day growing Indigo instead of Orchids?”

Miss Fauchelevent smiled again, Mabeuf was getting quite dizzy with her smiles “I think it would suit me very well Father.”

Mabeuf stared at the pair, gaping “Then would you accept my proposition?” prompted Fauchelevent gently. 

It might well be charity; Mabeuf couldn't afford to care, nor did he want to.

He stood tall “I think we both know that you are doing a kindness.”

“But will you accept it?”

For the second time that day Fauchelevnt offered Mabeuf his hand but this time there was no uncertainty when they shook upon the deal that had already changed Mabeuf's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this had gone through so many rewrite that im not even sure it still makes sense.  
> E still tends to assume R is isnt taking things seriously and, R is inclined to think E is omniscient and super good at everything including communication – not so much  
> They both seem to like kids canaconically even if E gets slain by Gavroche and R offers a child alcohol.  
> It is probably very clear that I just really like Mabeuf and want nice things to happen to him.  
> Le Marché aux Fleurs is/was a real flower market thats still around today it also sells birds and I am super tempted to have Cosette show up with a parrot in a later chapter like a disney villain.  
> Eponine again! with added butterfly effect  
> I think I wrote her a little too chatty? idk


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for violence and implied sexual threat

Light danced over the wet cobblestones. Grantaire stomped out into the street inhaling the rain fresh air in short gasps. People were such bastards. The close heat of the overcrowded Tavern had left him hot and sweating. He had been among acquaintances, acquaintances and Lesgle. For the first time in a long time out on the town for no other reason than to drink, to carouse and wander from place to place racking up debts with inn-keepers. Not that Grantaire participated in the carousing section of the evening, he could live that vicariously through Bossuet who was a happy, affectionate drunk. 

The rain had driven them to a Tavern that they did not habitually frequent where they met with some acquaintances with whom they shared some common interests; Grantaire recognised a few from the boxing halls, Bossuet had shared lectures with others. This was enough for them; all being students and Parisian, to address each other as friends. They were apolitical in a truer sense than Grantaire had ever been; like Grantaire they too had both station and familial wealth such that they could mostly afford to ignore the politics of their day but while Grantaire had constantly despaired of and bemoaned the futility of politics, this merry group of friends thought little of those above them or those below. They were parasitic and content; Grantaire had been parasitic but miserable. 

Grantaire had a drink, and then another, and then because he had stretched his consumption of his last drink over an hour, a third. Having a glass to fiddle with, something to sip when conversation lulled had been as much of a draw for him as the dulling effect of the liquor. After his third glass, though, Grantaire was beginning to sound almost intelligent to himself, which was his signal to cease his drinking for the night. A pack of cards was brought out and a few more rounds, both of drinks and games, passed before anyone even noticed that he wasn't drinking. And then came the friendly insistence that he take a drink, at his refusal the insistence became less friendly. This insistence came from a man named Baudelaire. 

Perhaps a portrait of Baudelaire is unnecessary for our purpose, I will sketch one regardless. He considered himself a good man, he took great care to make himself agreeable; he studied witticisms. It is with regret that I tell you that Baudelaire started clapping half a second too late at the end of any performance. As a companion he was unremarkable , that is to say uninspired. Baudelaire was the breed which imagines that there are unbreakable laws that govern man's interactions with man. Deviations from the norm incurred his wrath; Grantaire had unconsciously made an enemy of him. Here was a chance for retribution.

To Grantaire, who knew nothing of this, it seemed incredible that for some the most obnoxious thing he could do was refuse a drink, and yet Baudelaire had truly seemed offended. Back when Grantaire had been in the habit of angering people, be it deliberately or out of negligence, he had always understood their disgust; he disgusted himself. Baudelaire's sudden aggression came as a surprise, Grantaire had wanted to laugh at him but somehow the laughter wouldn't come. He couldn't remember what he had said to excuse himself though he hoped it was something cutting, something careless and arrogant. He should have stayed, should have laughed, should have taken that stupid glass and downed it in one, anything to wipe that damn smirk off Baudelaire's face. But he didn't need to prove himself to Baudelaire of all people, nor his sniggering friends.

Grantaire hunched his shoulders unhappily. He didn't blame them. Well that was a lie he did blame them but it was hypocritical of him, for he would have done the same in their position, in fact he was fairly sure he had, at some point or other, done worse; heckling some unfortunate abstainer to drink. And Baudelaire's friends were only guilty of wanting an easy life; it appeared that it was Grantaire's destiny one way or another, to make people uncomfortable. He took a deep breath; the rain having cleansed the streets of their stink and stepped out into the quiet night-time streets. The rain had driven most people inside, into Theatres or Wine-shops, and those people had yet to re-emerge. 

The clatter of the door startled him; it was Bossuet stumbling outside after him “R!”

He splashed towards Grantaire, not managing to evade even a single puddle “You left in a hurry. What happened? ”

“You didn't hear?”

“As much as I like to hang on your every little word, no.”

Grantaire hacked out a laugh. Bossuet looked upon him mildly, smiling with the cheer that was his habit even when he did not feel particularly cheerful. He felt disloyal for thinking it but it was easier by far to be Grantaire's friend now that Grantaire allowed himself to be comforted. Still the expectations formed over years are hard to erase and Bossuet was internally steeling himself for a tedious session of Grantaire wallowing in self-pity.

“I've just been informed that I make for a dull companion while I still retain the ability to walk in a straight line. Baudelaire was determined to make me more agreeable. I did him the favour of removing myself from his company.”

“Oh. Are you alright? You aren't normally so-” Legles waved his hand through the air, a drunken little meander which seemed to imply sensitivity “You don't let people bother you.”

“He didn't bother me” Grantaire muttered “just- you didn't have to sit opposite him; he has a face that puts most arses to shame, I could feel myself calcifying looking at him even before he opened that his fat mouth.”

Bossuet cocked his head to one side “Be kind: It's not Baudelaire's fault his mouth is so fat.”

He opened his mouth to remark on a world which formed such vile creatures as Baudelaire and such miserable wretches as himself but looking at Bossuet paused, his friend smiled at him displaying a bright mouthful of chipped teeth and warm eyes. Grantaire took a breath and the impulse waned; the world might be terrible but he didn't have to be. The sky was clear; he could see the stars.

“I won't say any more about him. Look; the heavens have cleared” He squinted and traced a shape in the air “Orion is out hunting tonight.”

“He's very bright” Bossuet observed “He won't catch any of the Pleiades like that.”

Grantaire shrugged “If, after millennia, he hasn't caught them already his luminescence isn't the problem. He might give up his pride and change with the times; even the provincials use rifles nowadays.”

“R, we can see the stars!” Bossuet was beaming now, the pure undisguised joy that strikes the intoxicated when something clever occurs to them. 

“I know. Your point?”

“It means there'll be no more rain tonight! We're safe to roam, come Grantaire, I think we've exhausted the entertainment this place can offer, lets see where our feet take us. Or better: take me some place of your choosing.”

Grantaire nodded thoughtfully “I'm starting to feel hungry again. Cassoulet? ”

It was nearer to two than one when Grantaire stumbled into his lodgings, yawning like a hungry snake. 

A few steps inside, he stopped. Light from the street arched through the shutters, revealing stripes of the darkened room. His Armoire, Desk, the Mantelpiece, and his Bed. The last article was occupied. Grantaire's mind drifted often to the classics of his youth and the comparisons he drew were inevitable; Enjolras resembled far too strongly the ideal of antiquity, the beauty and honour, the epic grandeur of an era given the gilt of centuries, imagined into greatness by its sons, to not be accoladed as an Adonis. Although, Grantaire thought wryly, times of myth would not well bear the presence of Enjolras, Enjolras face to face with a God would have some smiting of his own to do. That was the man lying unguarded in his bed. There was no service Grantaire would not undertake for him. 

Stripping down to his underclothes Grantaire padded towards the bed. He tried to move quietly. Not quietly enough; Enjolras murmured awake as he drew back the covers.

“You're back late.” 

Grantaire slipped into the bed tangling his cold feet with Enjolras' warm ones, he smiled “Did you miss me?”

Enjolras tugged at his hair, a sleepy admonishment for his arrogance, or perhaps for the way he was pressing the chilled soles of his feet up against Enjolras' calves.

“I missed you” confessed Grantaire to Enjolras' collarbone. 

He had no desire to hear Enjolras parrot the sentiment; his arms curled around him were proof enough of his devotion. Besides when Enjolras did choose to express himself verbally it was devastating. Not so long ago he had told Grantaire with utmost seriousness that he would like it if they raised a child together. A child! Grantaire was almost certain that it was just idle talk, Enjolras scarcely had time for just him outside of the all consuming cause, and yet the desire for a child implied more permanence, more devotion than any shallow words of love. Grantaire's heart had yet to recover. He felt sorry for him, really, Grantaire thought, as Morpheus took his hold, how would Enjolras ever get rid of him now?

Enjolras curled his body tighter around Grantaire. Neither of their beds were big enough for them both to lie on their backs, so they slept slotted together like spoons in a draw. A sound had been slowly worming its way into his consciousness, a harsh repetitive noise. Being, as he was, warm, loose-limbed and curled against his lover, Enjolras felt distinctly unmotivated to engage with this noise. It continued. There was a proximity to the sound. The sound was knocking, Enjolras bolted upright. Someone was knocking on Grantaires door.

Grantaire snorted awake, flailing “Wh'?” 

They clung to each other in the darkness “Listen” The knocking continued, more urgently. 

“Who is it?” Grantaire hissed. Any of their friends sufficiently in their cups to seek them out at this time of night would have already announced themselves.

“I don't know” Enjolras eyes narrowed and he rose from the bed in the near darkness “Is what I gave you before safe?”

Grantaire nodded tightly, his hands clutching the bedsheets, and Enjolras brushed Grantaire's hair away from his forehead “It's probably nothing.”

Enjolras braved the first rush of cold air as he got out of the bed. In the darkness he stumbled over something: R's discarded clothes. Enjolras frowned and kicked the offending articles away. They would have words later. How difficult was it to fold you're clothes away before bed? The knocking stopped as he turned the handle. He took a deep breath and swung open the door. Three figures stood in the dark hall, two women standing behind a man. 

A very familiar man. 

“Pontmercy?” Enjolras exclaimed. He strained his eyes against the gloom: it was unmistakably Pontmercy. Behind him he heard Grantaire scramble to light a candle. This illumination brought the scene into further relief. Marius' hair was in disarray, his cheeks flushed, his shirt was untucked and he was missing his cravat, waistcoat and coat. He was barefooted. Enjolras frowned; disorder was uncharacteristic for his diligent friend, shoelessness unthinkable.

Pontmercy looked as bewildered as he felt “Enjolras? What are you doing here?”

Amidst his concern Enjolras felt no small amount of irritation; they were not so discreet with their intimacy that Pontmercy should have no idea why Enjolras might be spending his nights with Grantaire. Even apart from that it was not so unusual for friends to stay with one another; for instance he had never, in all the years they had been friends, known Lesgle to live under his own roof.

“Sleeping. Until you came along ” He said, curtly “What do you want?”

“We need a place to stay” It was Miss Fauchelevent; she stepped forward into the light. Her face was drawn and her dress torn, a split that revealed her petticoats almost to her waist. Enjolras drew back at her appearance The other girl stood behind her; candlelight casting shadows in the hollows of her cheeks.

“Cosette?” Grantaire rushed forward, squeezing past Enjolras to grasp Miss Fachelevent by the hand. He pulled her into the room; his hands fluttering anxiously over her torn clothes and up to her swollen cheeks. “What happened to you? Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine, its not me. I-” Miss Fauchelevent embraced him “I don't know where to begin”

The other girl herded Pontmercy into the room; pushing the door closed behind them. Enjolras gave way to her; she darted to the window and peered out through the shutters “We begin by making sure the bastard didn't follow us.”

Enjolras snapped to attention. He joined her at the window to look out at the empty street then turned back to look at Pontmercy “Bastard? Should we be expecting trouble tonight?”

“No” Pontmercy shook his head firmly “If we were followed they would not dare confront us in such a well populated area. I am sorry my friends, we would not have troubled you with this but for the urgency of the situation.”

The apology was appreciated; Enjolras would have preferred an explanation.

“Who is chasing you?” His question was directed at Pontmercy, who was not given a chance to answer. 

“My Father” The girl muttered hollowly “so far. He'll get his thugs to help him out before too long” She finally turned away from the window.

“Your arm!” Miss Fauchelevent gasped. Blood was sluggishly flowing from a shallow cut on her bicep, pooling at the crease of her elbow and dripping down her fingers. Raising her arm to the light the girl regarded it with a curious blankness that Enjolras recognised. He had known men caught up in the heat of battle to grow numb to pain as their blood boiled. 

The girl curled her lip “It's nothing.”

This statement came with the confidence of one who has suffered much and survived worse. In that moment the girl seemed to contain all the noble ferocity of a guard dog: fearless and steadfast. 

Grantaire coughed breaking the spell “Courageous though you are, you're courage is dripping all over my carpet.”

The warrior folded back in on herself, a girl again she blanched and gathered up her ragged petticoat to wipe at her bloodied arm.

“R!” snapped Enjolras, a second faster than Miss Fauchelvent who had elected to forego abbreviation. 

“I jest” Grantaire placated, spreading his arms in a parody of magnanimity “drip all you please. Or better yet bleed on some of my other possessions” He crossed over to his Armoire and produced a handful of Handkerchiefs. Discarding most of them, he selected two of the largest and held them up to the girl “Paisley or stripes?”  
The girl brightened minutely and for a moment it looked as though they were about to start discussing the aesthetics of her prospective bandages.

Then Miss Fauchelevent impatiently cried “ What does it matter!” She snatched both of the Handkerchiefs away from Grantaire and rushed to bind the wound, saying as she did so “Allow me.”

Eponine froze as Cosette lifted her blooded arm in her hands and began dressing the wound. The blood seeped through the first two handkerchiefs; Grantaire volunteered a third, sky blue. Bright and silken, it was almost like a gift, the prettiest gift she had been given in a long time. Tied by the prettiest person. She flexed her arm and the wound throbbed but no more blood appeared. It was the second time that day Cosette had given her something. Suddenly Eponine felt achingly tired, she understood why Marius loved his Cosette. 

“How does that feel?”

Everyone was looking at her, everyone but Marius. Marius was looking at Cosette. Eponine's skin prickled uncomfortably “Fine” she muttered. There was a bed behind her, two chairs next to a fireplace, a desk, a wardrobe. Innumerable books and trinkets cluttered every flat surface. She collapsed back onto the bed taking Cosette with her. Marius sat himself on her other side.

Enjolras, the blond, stony one faced them “Now that you've settled down: tell us. What happened tonight?”

The question echoed in her mind but she couldn't find her answer. Eponine understood the events of the night but her own actions had been a mystery too her.  
The day before had been full of wretched blessings. Blessings because the Old Man from the Saint-Jacques du Haut Pas had made good on his word and brought new stockings, coats, blankets and rent besides. Wretched because her Father broke a window pane and sliced up Azmelda's hand. Wretched because Marius lingered in the hallway to make soft eyes at the Old Man's daughter. Wretched because her Father came up with a plan. 

Thenardier's Plans always hurt someone be it a small cut or a gaping wound. But while Thenardier and his Patron-Minette were voracious, Eponine was resigned. You might judge her for aiding her Father in his violence for she was by all definitions an accomplice, a criminal even. She was a lookout and a messenger; her father's dog(bitch Montparnasse would whisper sometimes with savage satisfaction, his breath hot in her ear). What other role was left for her to play? There was nothing else for her and it was better by far to be wicked than to be alone. This time was different, however, this time Marius knew this Old Man; the Old Man knew Marius. Whatever her Father was planning, Marius would learn of it. Another part of her whispered, however, that it would be better to be despised in blue silk, than pitied in rags. That, perhaps, her Father would scare the Old Man so much that he would flee Paris, taking his pretty, pretty daughter with him.

Her Father had asked the Old Man to return to the Gorbeau house at 6 o'clock, when the house was empty, had gathered the Patron-Minette and brought a chisel from the ironmongers. Eponine was sent outside to stand guard. As the time for the old man to arrive drew closer Eponine became frantic. The rain started to pour down on her. Montparnasse swanned past, trying to tempt her away from her post but she dismissed him with a dead stare. She could still warn the Old Man, or run out to find Marius or even to the nearest police station. Eponine did nothing; she watched, she waited. Six o'clock came and went. The Old Man was a dud. She let herself breath again; she would have nothing to decide. The Patron-Minette left in dribs and drabs melting away into the night leaving Eponine to return to the grime of the Gorbeau house.

Her Father was furious. Eponine half-listened to him rant as she drip dried next to the fire. Repeated curses on the Old man, mutters about getting what he was owed and mentions of a Lark which held a distant familiarity for the shivering Eponine. But she was cold and her Father's bitterness held no novelty for her. Whatever her father held against the old man, it didn't matter, the old man was never coming back. Downstairs the door creaked open again; Marius returning from his dinner. Eponine smiled. Marius might never look at her with love, but at least she would never see the pity in his eyes turn to hate. 

Maybe that was as much of a happy ending as she was going to get. 

When she was dry Eponine curled up against her sister in the bed. The whimpers of her sister and the low heated arguments of her parents couldn't penetrate the relief she felt. Their bed had new blankets; Eponine almost felt warm. She watched as the red glow of the chisel faded to black and fell into the light doze that served for her sleep. About an hour before Enjolras and Grantaire were to be jolted awake, Eponine was awakened in a similar manner. 

The door to the Gorbeau house rattled. The sound was faint but this was a den of wolves. Four sets of eyes gleamed in the darkness. Eponine's Father sat upright; the wolf pricked up his ears. “Could it be him?”

Not one word had been uttered in that dismal room for hours; his voice emerged from the darkness like the rasp of a whetstone across a blade.

Her Mother hissed “Its past midnight.”

“Pretensions of the Bourgeois; disturbing the impoverished in the middle of the night, he's too fine now, that old fox, to keep regular hours, bah! No time to fetch back Babet; Claqesous will be long gone... as will the rest. We can't risk him growing suspicious of us. It will have to be tonight! Quick hide behind the door Woman, await my signal. 'Ponine – get the fire going again ” In the darkness Thenardier uncoiled himself and Eponine saw a glimmer of his yellowed teeth ”I'll go down and see if its him” at the door he paused again and cursed quietly “The student! He's back from his dinner, go and sit outside his door 'Melda alert me if he stirs”

Eponine hustled a yawning Azmelda out of the bed and hurried over to stoke the fire up to a blaze. She pulled the chisel away from the flames as they rose higher and glanced around; her Father had left, Azmelda had left, her Mother was busy concealing herself behind the door. Eponine stood up, the chisel still hanging loosely from her grasp. It would not do, she thought wildly, for her Father to make the old man yell out when Marius might hear. She sat back down on the bed, tucking the chisel under the bedclothes. Downstairs the door creaked open, Eponine heard her Father's voice oozing like oil up the stairs. Her hands curled themselves into knots, her dilemma had raised its ugly head once more.

Her father appeared again at the door “Come in my dear, the Monsuier next door is out, but why don't you warm yourself by our fire until he returns?” 

“Thank you” Eponine's blood ran cold and she stared as the owner of that sweet bell like voice appeared in the doorway.

Not the old man but his Daughter.

As soon as she stepped through the door Thenardier pounced on her. He clapped one hand over her mouth and with the other lifted her up off the floor. She writhed in his grip, kicking at him with her pretty heeled boots. Thenardier held her down in a chair while his wife tied her down. Eponine did not yet know Cosette but she already understood a little of her ferocity: the Thenardiers were forced to bind each of her limbs to a limb of the chair. They gagged her to boot.

“My God! Little Cosette all grown up, whatever are you doing out at night?” Thenardier clapped his hands together “Ah! I have it! Sneaking out to meet your lover, hm? How disappointing after all the sweat and tears we poured into raising you into a good moral woman.”

Eponine was thrown into further confusion. This confusion however was purely emotional, Eponine's understanding of the situation was perfect. The name Cosette had brought back memories of a raggedly little girl, a lark, who always used to draw her Mother's ire back when they owned an inn and were almost respectable. She remembered too the girl leaving with a stranger and the way her Father had snarled about being robbed. Together again with their fates reversed and yet Thenardier still loomed over them both.

The Thenardier was still speaking “Now. You are going to be a good girl for me one last time and write down your address for me. I'm sure you Father will be eager to ensure your safe return.”

The lark shook her head. 

“No? I wouldn't be so quick to refuse Madomoiselle. There are other ways to extract profit from a young lady such as yourself.” 

“A velvet over-skirt” Madam Thenardier remarked “This should belong to my girls.”

In a sudden fit of anger she pulled the Lark's skirts up, exposing her legs to the the murky light of the room. Eponine made herself small and silent; she was back in Montfermeil playing with a new doll while Cosette swept and scrubbed away at the floor. She noted the way her Father had let his hands linger on Cosettes trembling form. 

“Silk underclothes” spat Madame Thenardier.

Thenardier leered and reached out to trace the tops of the larks stockings “Silk” he mused “That will sell”

He knelt to remove them but his wife shoved him out of the way “I'll do it” she snarled staring up balefully at her prey. But as she untied the Lark's booted foot from the chair Cosette lashed out, catching the Woman in the face.

You fool, Eponine thought, you fool, she'll beat you for that, she'd beat you for less. Eponine closed her eyes and waited for the crack of flesh meeting flesh. Marius slept on next door. She wondered if Marius would love Cosette still if her pretty face were ruined. Eponine had been pretty once; she might still have been if only some stranger had appeared to rescue her.

The resounding crack of Madame Thenardier's slap echoed in the room but no whimper of pain followed it. 

Eponine had darted forward, shielding Cosette with her body.

“Get back” barked Eponine. She straightened up, releasing Cosette from her protective embrace. In one hand she held the chisel she had taken from the fireplace. Moving in front of the Lark, she drove the Thenardiers backwards. Eponine screamed. She screamed until she was panting and shaking. Thenardier tried to step forward but Eponine stabbed at him and bared her teeth. Retreating he held up his hands.

“Eponine, sweetling, you don't want to hurt your Family do you?” Her Father pleaded “We mustn't make any decisions I might regret.”

“I don't give a shit about your regrets.”

The door crashed open. Marius appeared, a weeping Azmelda trying desperately to pull him back. He shrugged her off, chest heaving, his dark eyes swept the room casting judgement on everyone in it. Eponine's grip on the chisel faltered. Lunging forward Thenardier knocked her to the ground, Eponine fell heavily, twisting to avoid the fire she hit the metal edge of the open coal shuttle. The chisel skittered out of her hands across the floor. Madame Thenardier stooped to pick it up; Thenardier engaged with Marius. Reaching back, Eponine grasped the coal shuttle and, using all her strength, hefted it towards her Mother. Her aim was true and the giantess staggered backwards, disoriented by the blow and blinded by coal dust. The coal scattered over the floor, proving hazardous to Thenardier's footing, he crashed over. Marius pinning him with a foot to the chest Eponine sprang forward across the floor towards Cosette who stilled obediently under her hands as Eponine made quick work of the knots. The Lark flew from the chair, ripping the gag from her mouth. 

There was a moment of silence. Eponine looked at her Family, her Father defeated on the floor, her Mother still coughing and wiping dust from her eyes and Azmelda weeping, terrified, having retreated to a corner. 

“Let's go” 

They fled together, Marius beating back Thenardier at the rear. 

Cosette stumbled on the stairs almost tripping over. Impatient, Eponine grabbed Cosette's wrist and dragged her down the last few steps through the door where they came to an abrupt stop. Cosette's skirt had caught in the hinge of the door. The Gorbeau house had sunk its fangs into her. For a moment there was a tug of war between house and girl; the girl triumphed. The Lark yelped as her skirt tore but Eponine kept pulling her forwards. She heard the dull thud of Marius striking her Father once more, even then she didn't turn. Marius would not leave until Cosette was safe ergo she must get Cosette to safety. They ran, the beat of Cosette's heart thrumming against Eponine' fingers. 

Eponine came back to herself as Marius finished retelling the events of the night. No one asked for her version of events and she would not volunteer it, Cosette filled in the gaps that Marius could not provide.

“This man -Jondrette? His intended victim was your Father, Correct? And he intended to visit this Jondrette but he something stopped him. And after escaping Jondrette you came here instead of returning to your home” Enjolras spoke, his jaw set “Has something happened to your Father, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent?”

“He was arrested.” Cosette's soft face crumpled “They said that he was a criminal!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams are over!  
> I love Eponine but I have almost no idea how to write her - I hope I did her even a tiny bit of justice in her first major apperence in this fic.  
> during the canon Gorbeau house raid its snowing but this takes place two days later than canon and I like rain.  
> part 2 of oh god a fight how do fights work.  
> My first oc! Created just to be kind of a dick :( but seriously I do like the idea of Grantaire unknowingly having a load of arch nemisis. Baudelaire because series of unfortunante events  
> Bossuet bringing actual joy and Grantaire... making healthy choices.  
> Also melodrama - but thats what you get when you have an arrest a fight and excessive peer pressure all in one chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjolras is the type find the most efficent way to solve a problem and in his defence this might have worked well if it had been anyone but Grantaire who a) is canonically oblivious to the fact that hes actually in love with Enjolras, and b) really values the regard of his friends and would freak the fuck out if he thought he was being speculated about by his friends, especially about potential homosexuality given how eager he is to potray himself as very hetrosexual to his friends.
> 
> uh roast me in the comments if you think anyone is out of character (by roast i mean softly and constructively criticise)


End file.
